Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day one - Part One

Rook banged urgently on the heavy, polished door, her grip tightening around a stylish handbag stuffed with essential supplies. In one hand, she balanced a large tray stacked with steaming cups of tea and freshly brewed coffee, while behind her, Harding mirrored her efforts, managing an equally burdensome load of her own. From the crooks of her arms swung several colourful bags filled with fruit and an assortment of breakfast pastries—croissants, muffins, and scones—prepared for the emergency meeting that had been called.

The night before:

The clock on Rook’s apartment wall was edging towards 9:45 PM when the FadeApp notification chimed, flashing messages from Varric in the work chat that ordered everyone to arrive an hour earlier than usual the next morning.

Each member of the staff had been cautioned to dress in professional attire, ensuring their clothing was not only clean but also pressed to perfection. Strict rules were laid out: no chipped nail varnish, no bobbled tights, and definitely no creased shirts. They were to wear black smart shoes, and it was vital that they wore the uniform provided by the company.

As Rook lay sprawled on her sofa, idly scrolling through Fade of Our Own, another chat notification chimed energetically on her phone. It was one with her work friends.

DAVRIN: Can you believe this? It’s 9:45—where the fuck am I supposed to find a new iron for my shirt at this time of night?

BELLARA: Didn’t Johanna stick around after we left? Think she and Varric knew before the weekend?

TAASH: Word has it that performance reviews are on the horizon

HARDING: What? That can’t be true!

NEVE: I bet she’s practically shitting bricks. We all know Varric is the real brains of this operation

LUCANIS: Absolutely!!!

TAASH: Maybe they will finally sack her ass :D

The third ping from another message chat:

VARRIC: Hey kid, I need you to organise breakfast. Use the corporate expense account. No limit, just don’t take the piss, yeah?

ROOK: I’ll sort it. What’s the big deal?

Three bubbles appeared on screen and then disappeared.

Rook chewed her lip as she stared at her phone, and then a screenshot came through from Varric. Rook’s mouth opened as she read:

Top Financial Bank Under New Management

“No fucking way!” Rook zoomed in on the photo. It had been taken from his phone, his work laptop on display with an email open. He had blanked out the rest but left the following paragraph showing.

Fade Banking Corp has been acquired and is now under new management. The situation became critical when the current CEO of the financial institution, Solas Lavellan, was arrested for fraud involving millions in gold against the bank, putting both customers and staff in jeopardy. In response, an FBC’s rival has stepped in to buy out all current stakeholders. In the coming weeks, a new management team will be formed. The identity of the rival bank remains undisclosed.

Rook tapped on her phone and went back to her chat with Varric.

ROOK : OMFG! Does this mean we are all losing our jobs????????

VARRIC : The new CEO will be with us tomorrow. He and two members of his team will inform us of the next steps. Have the others let slip that they know anything? Nothing stays secret in that place!

ROOK : They haven’t said anything. But if it’s all over the fucking news! They are bound to see it!

VARRIC : Keep your head down, kid. This isn’t going public until 10 am tomorrow. Johanna and I have been given time to talk to you all before it’s public. Upper management was told Friday that something was coming, but we never suspected this. If I leave, I have other options. I’ll take you with me. You’ll be fine. Get some rest.

Rook scrolled back to the other chat and began typing.

ROOK : Harding, I need someone to meet me at Hawke’s Cafe? 7.30? You live the closest.

HARDING : You got it, Rook.

ROOK : Thnx. Night all x

Rook placed her phone onto the charger, watching as the battery icon flickered from red to a bright green, signalling that it was finally getting the charge it needed. With a determined stride, she made her way to the bathroom, where the mirror greeted her with the promise of a refreshing shower. She took a moment to admire her nails, freshly painted a glossy black just two days prior. Satisfied with their maintenance, she decided to leave them untouched, opting to let their simple elegance stand out.

After a quick shower, she wrapped herself in a warm towel and combed her fingers through her damp hair. With a blow dryer in hand, she styled her locks as straight as possible to make it easier for her to straighten her hair in the morning. Once satisfied that her thick hair was dry, she turned her attention to her wardrobe to prepare her outfit. The sound of the iron hissing as she pressed her clothes echoed through the room, a rhythmic reminder of how much she hated the task. And she would do absolutely anything not to iron. Each piece was carefully hung up, creating a small collection of neatly prepared attire that would ease her into the day.

Among her work uniform items were some that still remained in their packaging, awaiting the chance to be worn. Every six months, her workplace granted her an allowance to refresh her wardrobe—an exciting opportunity to select new skirts, trousers, shirts, tops, and various suit jackets. She sifted through her collection with a keen eye, pulling out a tailored black blazer that had a sleek, professional cut, and a pencil skirt that complemented it beautifully. However, as she held the skirt up to her waist, she couldn’t help but notice that the hem sat a bit higher than she preferred, a minor discomfort that she told herself she could manage for one day.

With a spark of creativity, she took an emerald green shirt from her closet, expertly pressing out any wrinkles with the iron’s heat. She then searched for a belt to add a touch of flair—a gold and green belt that perfectly encased her waist, enhancing her silhouette. The combination of colours complimenting her pale skin tone and violet-brown eyes.

Feeling pleased with her preparations, Rook settled onto her bed, where she glanced at the clock. Realising the time, she decided to set her alarm for two hours earlier than her usual wake-up call, relishing the thought of having ample time to ease into her day and prepare a breakfast collection. With everything in place and a sense of satisfaction washing over her, she climbed into bed, letting the comfort of the blankets envelop her as she drifted off to sleep, ready for whatever the next day held.

Now here she stood the next morning, anticipation coursing through her veins as she awaited entry into the building. With a swift motion, Neve swung the door open, granting them passage and then locking it behind them with a definitive click. Her keen gaze settled on Harding, appraising her critically.

“So, I take it Davrin wasn’t the only one scrambling for a new iron at the last minute?” she remarked, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

“Haha, very funny,” Harding responded, rolling her eyes in mock annoyance, though the faint blush creeping over her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment.

“Right then, where do these refreshments need to go?” Rook inquired, extending the heavy trays laden with an array of cups before her, the aromatic wafts of pastries and coffee teasing their senses.

Neve’s expression shifted to one of determined focus as she quickly accepted the top two layers. “Up to the top floor. We’ll get everything arranged and ready for the meeting,” she asserted, her voice filled with purpose.

“And where are the others?” Rook asked, a spark of curiosity igniting within her.

“Varric and Johanna have them scouring the building, making sure everything is pristine and presentable,” Neve explained briskly, her tone betraying a hint of urgency.

“What time are they supposed to arrive?” Rook pressed a slight furrow forming on her brow as thoughts raced through her mind.

“Before midday. The new CEO and two members of his executive team,” Neve revealed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if sharing a precious secret. “This new CEO has quite the reputation—a bit of a dragon, if you will. He’s known for his keen eye for profit and his ruthless dealings.”

“Any idea who it is?” Rook asked, trying to downplay her anxiety at the recent management announcement.

“No,” Neve affirmed, her expression serious. “He’s a well-known figure in the industry. Although his name hasn’t been leaked yet, neither has the name of the opposing bank that has taken us over. I have a strong suspicion it’s someone we’re all likely familiar with—”

Before she could finish, the door to the conference room burst open violently, and Johanna strode in with an air of authority. Despite holding the same rank as Varric in management, her presence was anything but inviting; she radiated a cold, bitter energy.

“You three, I need to conduct a uniform inspection,” Johanna commanded, her tone brooking no argument.

Rook rolled her eyes, adjusting the hem of her skirt with a resigned sigh as she turned to face Johanna, awaiting the inevitable critique. Johanna meticulously inspected each aspect of their appearance: she swept a critical gaze over their hair, ensuring it was impeccably neat; assessed their makeup, judging the application with a discerning eye; scrutinised the fit of their clothes; and even inspected the undersides of their shoes, searching for any trace of dust or scuff. Rook felt a wave of relief wash over her as she recalled her decision to wear black heels instead of her usual flats.

“That skirt is rather short,” Johanna noted, her narrowed eyes locking onto Rook. “Is it corporate-made?”

“Want to check the tags?” Rook shot back, frustration bubbling beneath her composed exterior. She turned, lifting her fitted jacket and subtly arching her back to give Johanna a better view for inspection.

Johanna, ever the stickler, obliged.

“See? Told you,” Rook said, tucking her blouse back in place to ensure it lay perfectly over her form.

“You know what, Ingellvar? I’ve never liked your attitude,” Johanna spat, the words like venom dripping from her lips, her voice laced with disdain.

Nearby, Neve and Harding watched, their eyes wide, mouths agape, as the tension thickened, a silent pressure building between them.

“I could say the same about you, Johanna,” Rook retorted, the words dripping with venom like a snake’s kiss, making her point unmistakable.

“You’d have been shown the door a long time ago if you were on my team; your performance is unacceptable.”

“Good thing I report to Varric,” she countered defiantly, a smirk playing on her lips as she recalled his easygoing nature.

“There’s no telling what will happen. With a reputation for aggressive restructuring, the new CEO is making deep cuts, shedding underperforming assets and staff. I’m sure you and Varric will find jobs in no time,” Johanna fired back, a sly smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

“What makes you think it won’t be you?“ Rook fired back with a quick comeback.

A harsh, grating scoff ripped from Johanna’s lips; the sound was like nails on a chalkboard, jarring and unpleasant. “My years of experience and knowledge? No chance,” she spat, the words tasting like ash in her mouth, “they would never let me go.”

As the heavy oak door to the conference room creaked open, the remaining staff began to enter, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor. Including Varric and Johanna, who were busy getting things ready, a total of thirty-three people came together for the gathering. The air buzzed with anticipation. Among the crowd, Rook and Lucanis stood out as the seniors, expected to take charge should their management find themselves occupied or delayed. They settled into their seats side by side, leather notebooks laid open before them, pens poised and ready to capture every detail as the discussion unfolded. The room buzzed with anticipation, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air, mingling with a sense of urgency as everyone awaited the start of the meeting.

“Alright, you lot. Are you all sufficiently caffeinated to tackle this? Come on, Davrin, leave some food for the rest of us!” Varric’s booming, jovial voice cut through the indistinct murmur of the crowd, prompting peals of laughter from the assembled group.

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, a smirk stretched across Davrin’s face as he responded. “You know what they say, boss: snooze you lose.”

“Sit down, you knucklehead!” Varric retorted with a grin, shaking his head at the antics.

Johanna cleared her throat, the sound sharp and commanding, and the room quieted, the chatter fading into hushed whispers.

Rook bit her lip, briefly glancing at Neve across the room, making a concerted effort not to laugh as her friend rolled her eyes at the display. Turning her attention to the paper before her, Rook wrote the date in the corner, preparing to take notes.

Varric leaned forward, his eyes glinting with seriousness as he directed his attention to both Rook and Lucanis. “You won’t need those yet. I just need you both to listen and keep an open mind.” He then shifted his attention to the full group, ready to address the team and set the stage for what was to be a pivotal meeting.

“Let’s make this brief. It’s Monday morning after all. Solas Lavellan has been arrested.” Gasps echoed around the room, but Varric continued. He pilfered gold from the company. He has engaged in embezzlement for years. The outcome was either the liquidation of FBC’s assets or their sale to the highest bidder. The company’s been acquired, but headquarters hasn’t revealed the buyer yet.”

A burst of chatter erupted among the staff. With a raised hand, Varric calmed the group.

Johanna explained, “Further information will be disseminated as soon as it becomes available. The new CEO is scheduled to arrive with us in the middle of the day.”

“We don’t know the plans that lie ahead,” Varric said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Expect to receive further information from us tomorrow. This isn’t ideal news to hear, especially so early in the week when you’re still trying to get your bearings. But I swear on a nug, you’ll know the second we do,” he said, before dismissing them all to prepare for the day ahead.

Rook lingered behind, her mind racing as she surveyed the chaos left in the wake of the meeting. Determined to restore order, she set to work tidying up. Grabbing the remnants of the breakfast spread — crumpled napkins, empty plates, and leftover pastries — she loaded the dishwasher with precision in the adjoining staff room. Once she had started the machine, she wiped down the desks with a disinfectant spray, ensuring that every surface gleamed before she stepped out for her assigned post for the day.

Settling into her office, Rook took a moment to regain her composure. She hung her blazer neatly on the back of her chair, allowing herself a slight sigh of relief. Her hair was tied loosely, a gold hair clip securing it in place, but she found herself absently tugging at loose strands as she prepared to tackle the stack of paperwork cluttering her desk. Half-finished reports and memos lay scattered around, the weight of the unfinished tasks pressing on her mind when a soft yet firm knock broke her concentration.

“Hey, Rook,” Varric poked his head into the room, his presence exuding a casual authority. “Got a sec?”

“Sure,” she replied, pushing the papers aside as the tension in her shoulders eased slightly. “There’s always time for you, boss.”

He slipped into the room, closing the door with a quiet click behind him. “I came to check if you’re alright,” he stated, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rook responded defensively, but Varric’s steady gaze made her reconsider.

“I heard from Harding that Johanna was giving you grief this morning about your uniform,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against her desk.

“She’s always picking at something, Varric. You know what she’s like. It’s just her way.” Rook rolled her eyes, trying to brush off the irritation.

“I don’t want her getting inside your head,” he insisted, the grit in his voice revealing his protective nature. He took a seat in the chair opposite her, his expression serious. “I don’t want you worrying about what goes on upstairs over the next few days. You’ll be fine.”

Rook blinked, allowing his words to sink in. “Do you really think there will be job cuts?” she asked quietly, the thought of it unsettling her.

“Yep,” Varric said simply, nodding with a finality that left no room for optimism. “Management will go down to one. They don’t need both of us.”

Rook chewed her lip thoughtfully, nodding. “Wherever you go, I go, Varric. It’s as simple as that.”

He looked at her, sincerity softening his features. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If they get rid of me and Johanna and want new blood in our position, I want you to go for it.”

“No chance!” Rook exclaimed, rising from her seat in a flurry of agitation. She shuffled the papers on her desk, her gaze darting to the clock on the wall as if time itself might halt any impending changes. “I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“It would mean a pay rise and a good opportunity for your kid. That’s all I would ever want for you: job security.” His tone was earnest, compelling her to see the potential benefits.

“Varric, we don’t even know what is going to happen. Let’s see what this person says first, yeah?” Her voice was firm, but a tremor of uncertainty lingered beneath.

A second knock on the door interrupted their conversation. “Rook, it’s getting busy down there. Do you think you could give us a hand?” Bellara’s voice came through, tinged with urgency and a hint of apology.

“Of course, give me two minutes,” Rook replied, glancing back at Varric before turning her attention fully to her colleague.

“Thanks, Rook,” Bellara said before stepping away, leaving an apparent sense of tension lingering in the air.

“Who is this guy, anyway?” Rook queried, curiosity piqued as she tried to understand the unfolding situation.

“Emrich Volkarin,” Varric replied, his tone low and cautious.

“From Volbank? That’s our main competitor. Great,” she murmured, her heart sinking at the thought of facing competition at such a pivotal moment.

“Keep it quiet, though, kid. I can’t have the others knowing that yet,” Varric urged, a warning note in his voice. “Off you go; it sounds like it’s falling apart without you down there.”

Rook took a deep breath and, before leaving her office, extracted the hair clip from her hair. She hastily styled it into a more polished look, letting the strands frame her face and shoulders. With one last glance around to ensure she had everything — her keys, pass card, and security alarm — she braced herself as she ventured into the bustling area filled with customers.

“Oh, Maker,” she whispered under her breath, taking in the sight before her. A throng of people surged in confusion and anger, some demanding answers, while others simply looked lost. “Taash? What’s going on?” she called out, her voice rising above the noise.

“People are demanding to know what’s happening. The Thedas Times released a statement about the takeover, and customers want assurance that their money and investments will be safe,” Taash explained, urgency lacing their words as they navigated through the crowd.

“How the hell do we know?” Rook replied, running a frustrated hand through her thick ebony hair. “We haven’t been told anything more. They probably know more than we do!” She exhaled sharply, feeling the pressure of the situation weighing on her shoulders. “Do me a favour and turn the radio off.”

“On it,” Taash replied promptly.

Rook squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Time for a bit of crowd control.” With renewed resolve, she stepped forward once the radio had switched off.

Rook stepped confidently to the centre of the bustling banking hall, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. She cast a sweeping glance around, noting the frantic movements of her colleagues as they helped a growing line of anxious customers. Outside the large glass doors, she could see a steadily increasing queue of people, their faces a mix of confusion and impatience.

With a determined flick, she unfurled a newspaper on the desk, her voice cutting through the chatter. “I am so sorry. Excuse me, sir. Would you mind if I just—” As she spoke, she reached out to a man in his early fifties, whose slicked-back hair glinted under the fluorescent lights. His meticulously groomed moustache gave him an air of old-world charm. He took her hand, helping her as she gracefully climbed onto the desk that typically served as a welcoming platform for customers.

Her bold actions quickly caught the attention of her colleagues, including Johanna, who had just returned from a quick cigarette break outside, and who stuck with a high rate older woman.

“Everyone!” Rook called out, her voice ringing with authority, causing most heads to turn her way. She raised her voice, ensuring she had their full attention. “Excuse me.” As the chatter faded into an expectant silence, the man who had assisted her reclined in his chair, chin perched on his hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips, as if he were both amused and intrigued by her behavior.

“Thank you,” Rook said, bringing her hands together in a gesture of appreciation. “I am Ivy Ingellvar, one of the senior staff here today. I trust that many of you have seen the article published this morning in The Thedas Times?” She scanned the crowd, noting the glimmers of recognition in their eyes. “My colleagues and I were briefed at 8:30 a.m. regarding the unfolding events. While we don’t possess all the answers right now, I assure you that your investments are secure with us.”

“Bullshit!” a voice shouted from the crowd, the word laced with disbelief and anger.

“Hey, do I come into your place of work and shout at you?” Rook shot back, a hint of playful defiance in her tone. This response elicited a small laugh from some in the crowd, prompting a few others to urge the disruptor to quiet down. “We are very much in the dark, just like all of you. However, we have been assured nothing will change for our customers. Everything will continue to operate as usual. When our official branding changes, you will receive notifications via email or letter, based on your account preferences. If you wish to inquire about the change of ownership, I regret to inform you that we cannot provide any further information at this time. If you require assistance with your accounts, please wait in the queue, and I or a member of our staff will attend to you as soon as possible.”

“What are you going to do? Make us leave? Throw us out?!” a voice piped up, filled with indignation.

“I can call the guard. They would be more than happy to escort you to Dock Town Prison,” Rook replied, her lips curling into a smile that masked her unease. “Thank you all for your patience and understanding. Now, if you do NOT need financial or banking assistance, please exit and have a wonderful day.” Her sarcasm edged in the last few words.

A ripple of cheers erupted from some in the crowd as Rook prepared to step down from the desk. The same gentleman who had offered his help earlier was there again, ready to help her down. With surprising strength hidden beneath the fabric of his expensive suit, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her down delicately.

“That was quite a speech,” he remarked, his voice low and smooth, as he surveyed the dispersing customers with his hazel eyes.

“Thank you,” Rook replied, returning his gaze with a smile, even as a flutter of unease danced in her stomach. “How can I assist you?”

“Emmrich Volkarin,” he introduced himself, extending a hand that radiated a warmth she wasn’t prepared for. As Rook shook his hand firmly, a blush crept across her cheeks, betraying her unexpected reaction to him. “The new CEO.”

Chapter Text

**Day One, Part Two**

The man before her seemed to fill the room, and Rook’s eyes widened as she absorbed his imposing figure and the intensity in his eyes. His height was striking, his tailored suit crisp, dark, and expensive, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and leanness of his frame. A perfectly knotted lilac tie, from under which peeked a crisp white shirt, brightened his dark suit. She noted the gleam of gold rings on his fingers, suggesting considerable wealth and power. His handshake was firm, lingering, and sent a wave of electricity through her as their skin met. A pleasant warmth remained where his large, strong hands had held her waist. The memory of his touch lingered, a phantom heat like faint scorch marks on her skin.

“Oh, fuck. My palms are sweating. Say something, you idiot,” she chastised herself internally, chiding her rising nervousness.

“Pleasure to meet you, Professor Volkarin,” Rook managed to say, forcing a smile that she hoped looked genuine despite her fluttering heart.

“And you, Miss Ingellvar,” he replied smoothly, his voice deep and resonant. “These are my associates, Myrna and Vorgoth,” he continued, gesturing casually to the people standing beside him.

Rook turned her gaze to them, offering smiles and handshakes. Myrna had an air of quiet competence, her hair pulled back neatly, while Vorgoth was imposing, with a stout build that suggested a readiness for any challenge.

“I hope you weren’t waiting long,” Rook said, consideration etched on her face as she offered a hurried apology. “Your arrival wasn’t expected until midday. I would have come down earlier had I known.” Her tone remained poised and professional, though she could feel his gaze subtly analysing her appearance, taking in her work suit and how it hugged her curves.

“I accept full responsibility,” Emmrich replied earnestly. “I thought it would be more effective to arrive earlier and get a head start on my daily schedule.” He paused, allowing the words to settle before continuing. “I was most impressed by your speech. My understanding is that you are the highest-performing employee at this branch.”

It was a statement that she couldn’t bring herself to answer.

The compliment brought a blush to Rook’s cheeks, so she skillfully diverted the conversation. “Come upstairs with me. I’ll introduce you to Varric,” she quickly diverted the conversation. With a relieved sigh, she shifted her weight, gesturing towards the stairs.

“After you, Miss Ingellvar,” Emmrich said graciously, bowing his head slightly and gesturing for her to lead the way.

Pride and anxiety warred within her as she elegantly ascended the staircase, the polished floor echoing with the rhythmic click of her heels. She was acutely aware that Emmrich was behind her and she wasn’t sure if it was paranoia or his eyes were watching her ass as she walked. Suddenly becoming aware of how short the skirt sat on her frame, well according to the bitch Johanna.

Upon reaching Varric’s office, she hesitated momentarily before knocking on the door. “Come in!” his voice called out.

“Hey, Rook,” Varric said, his face lighting up as he rose from behind his desk, a broad grin spreading across his features.

“Hey, boss. I have your new boss here to see you.” Rook smirked at him, a swell of confidence in the presence of someone she knew well. She widened her eyes as if to say, Uh oh.

“Ah, wonderful!” Varric exclaimed with enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling. “Is Johanna around?”

“Want me to check and see if I can find her?” Rook’s voice was coated with sickly sweet sarcasm that had Varric chuckling.

“That would be wonderful,” Varric replied appreciatively, as he rolled his eyes. His voice dropped to a lower so only she could hear him. “If you can’t find the mean witch, don’t panic. But it might be worth having you and Lucanis join us in the conference room.”

Rook stepped aside to let Varric walk out first, her eyes lingering on the trio as she turned back in their direction. Rook nodded, her smile genuine as she walked past them, making her way to her office. She needed her notebook and water bottle before seeking out the others.

As she descended the stairs to the main floor, she found Lucanis at the front desk, just finishing up with a customer. His face showed exhaustion mixed with satisfaction—a clear indication of a long day, despite the building being open to the public for no more than two hours.

“Have you seen Johanna?” Rook asked, her urgency palpable.

“Thankfully, no. I’ve heard she’s on a warpath,” Lucanis replied with an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes.

“When isn’t she?” Rook shot back, unable to suppress a chuckle, fully aware of Johanna’s fierce reputation. “The new CEO is here. I’ve taken him up to Varric. You and I are to join them in the conference room.”

Lucanis sighed, “As if we don’t have enough on our plates.” He sipped his cup of coffee. “Meet you up there?”

Rook swept through the ground floor, scanning for any sign of Johanna, but the place was devoid of her presence. Growing increasingly impatient, she listened to what Varric had said. Giving up the search, Rook refused to search for her any further. Johanna always had a habit of disappearing when she was needed. With a determined stride, she made her way to the third floor, pushing open the heavy door at the top of the stairs. She almost bumped into Johanna, whose bitterness was practically tangible.

“Ingellvar, I wanted to have a word,” Johanna said curtly. “Your attitude and that little stunt in the banking hall this morning were highly inappropriate.”

Rook felt a rush of heat rise in her cheeks, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Just because Varric took you under his wing when your mother–” The bitter woman began, but Rook cut her off, her voice sharp.

My personal life has nothing to do with you.”

“It is when it includes favouritism!” Johanna’s expression hardened. “There are going to be job layoffs, and I will see that you are fired. You and that nug fucker of a man! You think you can flutter your eyelashes and the men will come running, dropping everything to cater to you. But here, in this business, you actually need to carry your weight! There’s a mountain of paperwork on your desk from last week that has a deadline screaming at us tomorrow at 23:59!”

“That’s your workload,” Rook shot back, frustration spilling over. “Things I shouldn’t even be dealing with that are way above my pay grade!”

“Bullshit!” Johanna snapped, her eyes narrowing. “You begged for that work! And here you are, dressed in a slut’s clothing, trying to impress the new boss and show how much of a kiss ass you can be! I’m here to make sure that plan falls flat!”

At that moment, Varric emerged from the conference room, his brow furrowed. “Everything alright?” he asked, glancing between the two women, and Rook could tell he was emphasising to keep his voice calm.

“Yes,” Johanna replied sharply, her tone clipped. “This is between me and Ingellvar. This has nothing to do with you! You can’t keep running to her aid!”

“It certainly didn’t sound like everything’s alright,” Varric retorted, his voice thickening with irritation. “Trust me,” the shorter man scoffed, “I know Rook can handle herself. I will not tolerate you calling my staff member, a slut for wearing office workwear!”

“Varric, can I have a sec to use the restroom?” Rook asked, knowing she needed to regain her composure.

“Sure, Rook,” he replied, concern still shadowing his features. He turned his attention back to Johanna. “For your information, the ‘new boss’ is already here. He’s in the conference room, and if I heard what was happening out here, you can be damn sure he did too!”

Rook saw the colour leave Johanna’s face; her bravado wavered momentarily before Rook went into the staff lounge and crossed the space to the restroom.

This time, at least, she managed to keep her anger from bringing tears — a small win in her ongoing struggle against Johanna’s constant criticism. She envied the older woman’s unshakeable demeanour; nothing Rook did ever met Johanna’s exacting standards. Johanna accused her of laziness, despite her countless overtime hours and extra effort.

“Just smile and wave at the miserable cow.” She told herself.

With a deep breath, she smoothed her ebony hair and adjusted her blouse in the mirror, willing herself to project dignity as she proceeded to the conference room.

“Ah, Rook! Come take a seat,” Varric gestured to the free chair beside him. “I’ve heard you’ve already met our new CEO?”

“Yes,” Rook said with a smile. “Wonderful to see you again,” she replied, the sound of her voice like music to his ears, and he held out a large hand for her to shake once again. The same shiver that had run through her when she first touched Emmrich’s hand, a thrilling, intimate tremor, ran through her again.

Taking her seat beside Varric, she opened her book and set the pen in the centre.

“Splendid,” Emmrich said, his eyes lingering on Rook. “I’m assuming you all have a lot of questions, so let me mention some key factors.” He proceeded to outline the changes that were to unfold over the next several weeks.

Rook documented every word, her pen scratching across the page as Emmrich spoke, ensuring she wouldn’t miss a single detail so she could inform the others.

“So, six members of staff will be terminated?” Varric clarified.

“Correct, taking the overhead count down to twenty-five, and one management position,” Emmrich confirmed. “I’ve put together a detailed list—a crucial checklist that needs to be fully addressed before any decisions are finalised. Over the next few days, I plan to delve into the details, carefully studying each person’s background and perspectives to reach a well-informed conclusion. A significant sum, covering six months’ salary, will be paid upfront the morning after their contract is ended. That should be sufficient to help someone through until they secure new employment; it offers a financial cushion during their job search. I’ll ensure everyone receives a glowing recommendation, a testament to their hard work,” Emmrich explained, a warm smile gracing his lips.

“How will you determine and evaluate each individual and their contributions?” Johanna inquired, raising an eyebrow as she leaned back in her chair, boredom etched on her sour face.

Emmrich straightened his posture, ready to explain his approach. “I’ll thoroughly review their performance metrics and files from the past year. My associates here will assist me in gathering and organizing the pertinent information. At some point, I will seek you both out for recommendations,” he responded with a hint of determination in his tone. He glanced at the clock on the wall, noticing it was nearly 1 PM. “I suggest we take a break for lunch. It would be beneficial for me to spend the afternoon in the office, getting to know each person better before we delve into the more challenging evaluations tomorrow. Thank you all for your time,” he concluded with a nod of appreciation.

They watched as Johanna stormed from the room, the door banging on her way out. Varric shook his head disapprovingly. She was likely on her way to find her favourites and prepare them for the affectionate gestures they would need to make to kiss ass over the next few days, as Rook knew their work records were the lowest in the branch. She suppressed a smirk at the satisfaction of knowing that Johanna wouldn’t be able to cover for them any longer.

Rook closed her notebook with a decisive snap. “I’ll head downstairs to check on the others and make sure they’re doing alright,” she announced, a caring note in her tone. “Lucanis, you were swamped this morning, so I’ll cover for you to have your break. I’ll also send some of the others to lunch at the same time. It was busy down there this morning.”

“Just be sure to take your own break too,” Varric cautioned with a wave of his hand, a knowing smile creeping onto his face. He was aware of her tendency to prioritise others over herself, and he hoped to encourage her to take a moment for self-care.

“Oh, Miss Ingellvar, may I have a word?” Emmrich called for, his voice smooth but tinged with a hint of seriousness.

Rook’s demeanour instantly shifted, her face freezing as she registered his request. “Sure, Emmrich,” she replied, allowing his name to roll off her tongue with surprising ease, biting her cheek to suppress a shiver from running through her. She leaned back in her chair, watching Lucanis, Varric, and Emmrich’s associates exit the room.

“Permit me to state that I overheard your conversation with Johanna earlier,” he said, his expression intense. His hands were clasped together as he regarded her.

“Oh, fuck,” Rook thought, her heart racing at the implications.

“I’m sorry, Emmrich.” Her eyes dropped to the desk, warmth creeping into her cheeks as a blush overtook her.

With a reassuring gesture, he raised his hand slightly. “You do not need to apologise. I’ve acknowledged the matter and will discuss it with her tomorrow during my individual meeting with her.” He stood from his chair and made his way towards her.

“Oh, double fuck!” Rook exclaimed internally, her pulse quickening. She wondered if Johanna would actually listen to their new CEO, or if she would back chat and talk shit like she does to Varric.

“I have zero tolerance for that kind of talk directed at my employees; it creates a hostile work environment. We work together—smarter, not harder. I can’t abide the negativity; that constant drain of energy and pessimism is unbearable,” Emmrich stated firmly, his jaw tight, hazel eyes narrowed.

“Happy staff means happy customers, and that’s a win-win for everyone.” Rook countered, her smirk breaking through the suspense. She suddenly realised how close he was standing; she could feel the warmth of his body and the tension humming in the air between them.

“Now, let me not keep you,” he said, a flicker of genuine concern softening his stern expression, a subtle shift in his voice. “Breaks are precious in our line of work.”

“Thank you, Emmrich. And please, call me Ivy, or, preferably, Rook,” she added with a playful grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Rook?” he echoed, the intrigue in his voice turning her smile into a beaming one.

“It’s a funny story,” she replied, a sense of growing comfort between them.

“Perhaps you will indulge me and tell me about it one day,” he said, his eyes sparkling with an inquisitive light. Rook was aware of the warmth of his gaze on her as she walked away, and she moved her hips with extra sway.

---

Entering her office, Rook tossed her well-used book and half-empty water bottle onto her desk; the plastic of the bottle squeaked against the wood. With deft fingers, she grabbed a gold hair grip from her bag. Twisting her long hair up, she pinned it off her face. As she popped a mint into her mouth, the refreshing feeling lingered on her tongue, and her gaze settled on the stacks of paper spread out before her. A thought crossed her mind: perhaps tomorrow she could dedicate some extra hours to finally finish what had been dumped on her. After all, Monday night meant the usual after-work dinner gathering at the Hanged Man—a weekly tradition that she and her group of friends had done since way back when.

Taking a deep breath, Rook made her way downstairs, her heels clicking on the polished floor. “Right,” she muttered to herself, settling in front of the computer to log onto the rota and check the schedule. Her brow furrowed as she scanned the screen and glanced around the bustling room, noticing that her colleagues Neve and Bellara were still hard at work, unable to escape for their much-needed breaks.

“For fuck’s sake,” she grumbled under her breath. It always seemed unfair that Johanna, along with her circle of favourites, managed to breeze through their shifts, taking breaks whenever it suited them.

Without hesitation, Rook called out to Neve and Bellara, her voice firm but supportive. “Alright, you two go on break,” she ordered, her eyes locking onto theirs with unwavering confidence.

“But—” Bellara hesitated, glancing back at the customer in the waiting area, uncertainty clouding her expression.

“Trust me, it’s fine. Take your break together. You’ve both been run off your feet,” Rook insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. She knew the importance of a respite during the whirlwind of their shifts. “I’ll have some of the others come down and give me a hand.”

When Rook had something in mind, she was relentless in making it happen—she didn’t take no for an answer. Her decisiveness commanded respect and ensured efficiency, guaranteeing that her colleagues received the relief they deserved and were entitled to. She quickly began typing in the work’s computer chat, demanding that all staff not dealing with customers report to her immediately. Within five minutes, the banking hall was organised, and all waiting customers were attended to, much to the chagrin of the habitual workplace slackers. She knew they would bitch about her behind her back and at that moment, she didn’t give a toss.

---

“Varric?” Emmrich’s voice called out, breaking the hushed atmosphere of the camera room. He had just read the message Rook had placed in the work chat and watched her work on the cameras.

“Yes,” Varric responded casually, leaning against the desk beside Emmrich, his eyes flicking across the array of screens displaying the various feeds from around the building, inside and out.

“Are there cameras installed all over the office?” Emmrich inquired, glancing at the multitude of blinking monitors that captured every corner of their workplace.

“Pretty much everywhere, except for the top floor and the basement. As they are not accessed by the customer, head office said it wasn’t required,” Varric replied. “Also, Rook’s room doesn’t have a camera. There is one located just outside, and you can view half the room if the door is open. I trust her. That’s why she has that room. I know she wouldn’t hide away.”

Emmrich folded his arms, leaning forward to scrutinise one of the screens showing Rook, sitting at the front desk during what should be her lunch break. “Look at this,” he pointed out. “Does Rook often spend her lunch breaks working instead of taking that time for herself?”

“Yeah, that’s her routine,” Varric acknowledged, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “She makes it a point to ensure that everyone else gets their breaks. Even going so far as to stay behind to finish her workload.”

“That has to change,” Emmrich declared, his expression shifting to one of consideration. “She’s not getting compensated for those extra hours, and she’s entitled to take breaks, just like everyone else in this office.”

Varric chuckled, throwing his arms up in the air as he regarded Emmrich with mild amusement. “I’ve told her many times. She’s as stubborn as a nug. If you feel so strongly about it, go ahead and have that conversation. Be my guest. It’ll be interesting to see if she listens to you.”

---

Rook returned to her office at 4:45 PM, where a daunting stack of unfinished paperwork awaited her. She’d planned on a quiet moment of composure, but the door’s abrupt reopening shattered the peace.

“About time you got started,” Johanna snapped, slamming the door, a sardonic smile playing on her lips as her eyes raked over the piles of papers on Rook’s desk.

“It’s reassuring to see your staff finally putting in some effort. The guys downstairs were completely swamped today. I had to hunt down members of your team to get them to do their work. Apart from Lucanis.”

Johanna’s frustration erupted as she slammed her hand down on the desk, causing papers to flutter briefly before she unleashed her indignation on the neat piles surrounding Rook, scattering documentation everywhere in a whirlwind of chaos. With a last glare, she stormed out, leaving Rook staring in shock at the disarray.

Hot tears prickled at the corners of Rook’s eyes, blurring her vision as she knelt on the cold, hard floor, trying to make sense of the chaos around her. She began gathering the papers, determined to restore some order, but anger surged within her, making it hard to concentrate.

“Hey, Rook? We’ve closed for the day!” Neve’s voice echoed down the hallway, startling Rook from her thoughts. When Neve entered the office, her expression shifted to irritation as she took in the sight of her friend crouched on the ground.

“You guys go ahead; I’ll join you in a bit,” Rook suggested, forcing a smile even as she felt her heart weigh heavy in her chest.

“What happened?” Neve asked. She crossed her arms and furrowed her brow.

“Who do you think?” Rook countered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she gestured at the mess.

“Seriously? This is unacceptable!” Neve shook her head in disbelief. “I’ll be back. This is not on!” With that, she flung herself out of the office, leaving Rook alone once more.

Rook took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. Pressing the heel of her hands to the outer edges of her eyes, as if to push away the tears. But her sense of calm was shattered when the door swung open again, Neve reentering the room accompanied by Varric.

“This is taking things too far, Varric,” Neve fumed, pointing at the papers still strewn across the floor. “Look at this mess! It’s taking the piss!”

Before Rook could respond, the atmosphere shifted as Emmrich entered behind them, holding the door wide open. His expression was one of barely contained fury, his jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed as he assessed the area.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice low and commanding.

Rook stayed silent, knowing Neve and Varric were looking at her for an explanation.

“I’m waiting,” Emmrich continued, his tone hardening. “And I’m not a patient man.”

Rook’s jaw quivered as she finally spoke. “Johanna came in. We had a few words, and she flung the paperwork everywhere. It took me ages to organise it. I hadn’t yet stapled it together because I needed to scan it onto the system.” She ran a trembling hand over her face. Pulling the clip from her hair, leaving her hair to spill over her shoulders.

“That’s the third time today,” Varric remarked, his voice heavy with unease.

“Funny that,” Rook replied, her sarcasm slipping through. “Normally, it’s more.”

“Go collect yourself. We’ll handle this mess and lock it away.” Varric leaned down to take the papers from Rook’s hands. “Tomorrow’s a new day. I’ll call Johanna when I get in the car; she needs to keep her distance from you. You’ll be in your office tomorrow—do not disturb. Either Neve or I will help you get organised. I’ll talk to head office and explain that there’s been an issue. I’ll take the heat for the delay.”

“Rook,” Emmrich suddenly summoned her. He moved them away from the others, down to a room further along the hall, out of earshot. He held the door open for her and closed it behind them, his hands clenched tightly in his trouser pockets, his posture rigid with suppressed anger. “Please elaborate. Varric cited three incidents that occurred today. I would appreciate it if you could recall the other time.”

“Uniform inspection this morning,” she replied, her voice quieter now.

“Do you have any witnesses?” he pressed, taking a step towards her and the smell of black vanilla, orange and sandalwood wrapped around her.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Could you please provide their names?”

“Neve and Lace. I don’t want them getting into trouble because of me.”

“My dear, I assure you, they absolutely won’t,” he stated firmly. “Neither will you.” His face was earnest. “The second incident,” Emmrich continued, his gaze intently fixed on her, “occurred upstairs before our meeting.” Rook nodded, feeling the magnitude of the conversation. “I heard what she called you,” his eyes moved down over the clothing, “yet you clearly wear the bank’s standard office attire that was provided to you. I will not have you regard in such a distasteful manner.” He took a significant step closer to her. “From my understanding, there isn’t a camera in your room. Is Johanna aware of that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure. I know Varric requested specifically that I use that room. He’s knows I won’t take the piss like others and shy away from the workload. The L-shape of the room makes it awkward; there’s one directly outside that can see part of the room, but only if the door is open. I usually keep it open. Johanna closed it when she came in.”

“I’ll review the CCTV footage,” he replied, his tone suddenly more serious. “If it’s sufficient, Johanna Hezenkoss will have her contract terminated tomorrow. Void of redundancy.”

“What?” Rook exclaimed, her heart racing at the implications of his words, and a buzzing ran through her mind. What a glorious comeuppance that would be.

He stepped closer again, his expression softening as he looked into her eyes. With a calm exterior, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an emerald green handkerchief, extending it toward her. She waved his gesture aside.

“Take it,” he instructed firmly, yet his tone was gentler than before.

“Thank you.” She accepted it, holding it delicately between her fingers, tracing its soft edges as her thoughts raced.

“Do you want me to escort you home?” he asked, his hands poised together in front of him.

“No, thank you,” Rook replied, her voice steadying. “I appreciate the offer. If I didn’t have plans, I would have said yes.” She felt a warmth toward him; for some reason, he was incredibly easy to talk to. “On Monday nights, a few of us go out for food on the way home to blow off some steam, since Mondays and Fridays are our busiest days.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Emmrich commented, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “It’s essential to decompress while building bonds with those we work with. We spend a significant amount of time with each other—more than we do with our families.” His eyes flicked down to her left hand, noticing the absence of a wedding ring.

“Do you have a family?” Rook found herself asking, genuinely curious.

“Me? No, it’s just me.” He replied, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy.

“It can be lonely at times,” she observed, her heart going out to him.

“At my age, I’ve grown used to it by now.” A smile flickered across his lips. He noticed Rook’s gaze shift, and he turned to see Neve and Varric waiting outside the door, clearly eager to leave.

“Ah, I had best not take up any more of your time, Ivy.” The way he pronounced her name sent a shiver down her spine, making her heart squeeze unexpectedly. Wiping her face with his handkerchief, she turned to exit the room, noticing others observing her as she put his handkerchief into her pocket.

---

They gathered at their usual table in The Hanged Man, a pub that constantly buzzed with the sounds of laughter and lively conversation. The wooden tables, worn smooth by years of use, created a comfortable atmosphere for friends to unwind after a long day. Davrin took it upon himself to order a round of drinks, his easy demeanour spreading spirit throughout the group, while Taash organised food for everyone, ensuring there were a variety of options to cater to every taste—spicy wings, cheesy nachos, and a hearty veggie platter.

As Rook and Neve pushed through the hard wooden door, the lively chatter around them quieted momentarily. The friends instinctively moved aside to provide space for Rook to slide into a seat between them, seeking the familiar comfort of friendship after the chaos of her day.

“Are you alright?” Lucanis inquired, furrowing his brow as he studied Rook’s expressions carefully.

Harding slid her bottle of choice along the table.

“She’s such an asshole!” Rook burst out, her voice colored with frustration as her emotions bubbled to the forefront. She picked up the bottle of raspberry cider and took a long swig from the cold bottle.

“What happened?” Bellara pressed, leaning forward, genuinely interested in her predicament.

Rook turned to Neve, who shrugged her shoulders—a silent gesture that encouraged Rook to share her story. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Rook began to recount the chaotic events of her day. She recapped her tense encounters with Johanna, the whirlwind of chaos that erupted in her office, and the unwavering support she had received from Neve and Varric. All the while, she felt the weight of her friends’ attentive glances, amplifying her sense of vulnerability.

“And she called me a slut.”

The others gasped.

“She’s a fucking tool.” Darvin shook his head.

As the evening wore on and the laughter of her friends slowly became a comforting background, Rook ultimately decided it was time to leave.

“I think I’m going to head home. My head’s pounding, and I really want an early night,” she announced, her voice carrying a mixture of resignation and relief. With a wave to her friends, she stood up and made her way to the exit, a heavy frustration weighing on her heart.

Once outside, the cool night air hit her, and the anticipation of solitude mingled with lingering anxiety. By the time she reached home, tears of frustration welled in her eyes, each step a reminder of her exhausting day. She rushed inside, tossed her bag and other belongings onto the sofa, and headed straight for the bathroom.

In the bathroom, Rook took a moment to look at herself in the mirror. She removed her makeup carefully, relishing the fresh feeling against her skin, and brushed her teeth with deliberate intensity. After changing out of her work clothes—stuffing the fabric into the washer—she slipped into something soft and comfortable, seeking comfort in her familiar, homely surroundings.

Once settled in her bed, Rook reached for her phone, scrolling through Instafade while trying to distract herself from the earlier events. Pursing her lips in contemplation, an unexpected thought hit her: she should look up Emmrich Volkarin. Determined, she opened the Faddle search engine and typed in his name.

As the search results loaded, Rook found herself staring at various pages filled with information. Clicking on a promising link, she discovered it led to Instafade. To her disappointment, his profile was locked. For a brief moment, Rook hovered over the request to follow button, pondering the awkwardness of sending a request.

“Fuck it,” she muttered under her breath, and clicked the button.

At that moment, a notification from Varric lit up her screen.

“Hey kid. You free for a chat?”

Rook quickly typed back, “I’m shattered, Varric. I was thinking about having an early night.”

The ticks on her message turned green, and almost immediately, her phone rang.

Sighing, she answered.

“I was expecting you to send me to voicemail.”

“I did think about it.”

“Did you go for drinks?” Varric’s voice came through, a mix of friendly banter and genuine concern.

“Just the one. I really wanted to come home,” Rook confessed, feeling the weight of the evening lift slightly.

“Alright, kid. I won’t beat around the bush. I spoke with Johanna,” Varric said, his tone shifting to something more serious.

Rook fell silent, a chill creeping up her spine, a knot of apprehension forming in her stomach.

“She’s apologised if you thought her words upset you, but she claims she didn’t fling the papers,” he continued.

“What?!” Rook exclaimed, her voice rising with disbelief.

“Don’t worry. The CCTV footage tells a different story,” Varric reassured her. “Emmrich’s hoping the angle will be enough.”

“He got it?” Her heart raced at the prospect.

“Yep, he got the footage by the time I got home. He had already sent me an email confirming it. Your story checks out, kid. Not that I ever doubted you for a second.”

“Shit. Now what?” Rook asked, her nerves beginning to spiral again.

“That’s why I’m calling. The big boss will be in touch with you soon via email. He’s inviting both you and Johanna to a meeting at 11 a.m. He needs to finalise a few things before it goes ahead. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when Johanna sees that email,” Varric said, a hint of mischief in his voice.

“Varric, what do I do?” Rook felt suddenly overwhelmed.

“Hey now. You’ve done nothing wrong. She’s the one playing hardball, and now that Solas isn’t in charge, any grievances against her will be taken seriously,” he reassured her.

“About time,” Rook replied, relief starting to replace her anxiety.

“Volkarin is an intelligent man. He can already separate the workers from the shirkers,” Varric said, confidence lacing his words.

Just then, Rook’s phone chimed again, breaking the tension. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she put it on speaker.

Instafade notification: Emmrich Volkarin has accepted your follow request and has now requested to follow you back.

Heart racing, Rook quickly hit the accept button.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just Neve and the others are checking in.”

Varric chuckled. “Sounds like you need to get back to them. It’s good to see you’ve got a solid group of friends, kid. It makes me proud.”

“Uncle Varric, getting all sentimental?”

“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow. And promise me you won’t stress. Bianca said she’d come over and kick your ass.”

“Goodnight, boss.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

---

Emmrich sat in his penthouse suite, located in the most luxurious building in Nevarra. The Grand Necropolis was filled with the most glamorous apartments in Tevinter and spanned over thirty floors.

He had closed his laptop for the evening and dismissed his butler, Manfred.

As he picked up his mobile phone, he noticed several new notifications that he idly dismissed. However, one notification made him stop in his tracks.

Instafade follow request from I.Rook.I

Titling his head, he clicked the notification. He accepted and sent a follow request back; the smooth marble floor greeted his feet as he entered the bathroom, the shower head gleaming like a chrome star. His phone pinged with acceptance just as he reached for the towel. With a sigh of relief, he shrugged off his work clothes, grabbed his phone, and checked her profile picture. His cock twitched as he scrolled through the photos, a growing heat in the pit of his stomach intensifying with each picture. Stumbling upon a photo of Rook in a low-cut dress, his eyes widened, and he stopped scrolling, captivated by the elegant curve of her throat and the alluring sight of her exposed cleavage. He had spent every chance he could glance at her heavy breasts. Wondering how they would fare in his hands, how sweet her skin would taste. Was the pebbled flesh beneath her blouse the same colour as her lips?

A blush crept onto his cheeks. With the image of her in his mind, his cock was now solid. He put his phone on the dresser beside the shower, propping it up so he could see the image as he entered the shower. As soon as the downpour of water came, it was like a rainfall. He grabbed himself in his hand and started to wank to the image of her.

Chapter Text

Day Two Part One

The alarm blared at 5:30 AM. Rook completed a quick workout in the living room and showered before 6:30 AM. Once her hair was dry and styled, she put on her makeup and then got dressed. This time, she selected a black and emerald green dress, cinching it with the same belt she’d worn the previous day. Since the dress was above the knee, she left off the tights, but chose to wear heels.

A confirmation email from Varric popped up on her phone. It gave the exact meeting time. However, she couldn’t bring herself to read the following jargon-filled paragraphs.

With a churning stomach and the day ahead looming, she prepared a thermos of coffee, took two painkillers, and stowed the rest in her bag. Picking up her purse, she headed out to work earlier than usual, ignoring the messages and notifications on her phone as she stuffed it into her jacket pocket.

The day was mild; she walked, sipping her coffee from a flask and sighing now and then—a mere habit, really. The alternatives were to do that or bite her nails from anxiety.

It seemed too good to be true that Johanna would be dismissed so easily, especially considering how long Rook and the others had suffered and tolerated her.

Before long, Rook arrived at the building. With all the lights off, she realized she was the first to arrive. In under an hour, she’d emptied her thermos, her desk covered in the previous day’s documents.

“I don’t like it when you act like this,” Neve said, her voice heavy with concern.

“Sorry, I’m just...,” she trailed off, frustration clear on her face as she shook her head.

“Let’s talk about it, Rook. Don’t bottle it up.” Neve paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully as she looked at her friend, her brow furrowed with thought. “You know better than anyone how much worse that can make things.”

Rook chewed on her lip, weighing her options. Her friend was right, and yet, she loathed the idea of opening up to anyone. The thought of exposing her feelings felt uncomfortable; she had always preferred to keep her head down and tackle her problems head-on. Everyone around her had their own battles to fight, after all.

With a resigned sigh, Rook opened her laptop and navigated to the email she had received. Turning the screen to her friend.

“No way! Look at this! It says you can bring someone with you to the meeting. They can sit quietly and observe, which is great. It’s a way to help you not feel overwhelmed or threatened. Have you replied to it yet?”

Rook shook her head. “I’ve accepted the invite, but that’s all. I couldn’t bring myself to read the crap underneath.”

Neve sat up forward in her chair, determination creeping into her voice. “I’m coming with you—no ifs, ands, or buts. I’ll run to my room to grab my laptop, and I’ll speak with Varric, rearrange some things on the schedule. We’ve got plenty of people who can cover. Send Emmrich and Varric an email saying that you give consent for me to be there.”

“Okay,” Rook mumbled, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she turned her focus back to the email. She quickly composed a reply, sent it off to Varric, and copied Emmrich, grateful for her friend’s support.

Ten minutes later, Neve pushed the door open, and she lingered in the doorway. “All set for the meeting, Rook. I’m going to make some coffee. Do you want anything?”

“Would you mind topping this up from the filter?” Rook said, bending down to retrieve her water bottle from the cabinet beneath her desk.

“Sure thing! I won’t be long. I’ll grab some caffeine, and we’ll get everything sorted today,” Neve said with a wink before slipping out of the office.

Rook noticed Emmrich standing there, his aura confident yet relaxed, and she couldn’t help but smile at him. “Morning, Emmrich.”

“Good morning, Rook,” he replied, his voice warm and inviting.

“Please, come in,” Rook urged Emmrich, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Emmrich closed the door and settled into the chair opposite her. “I didn’t want to intrude. I wanted to talk to you this morning before the meeting,” he said, his expression serious as he caught her gaze.

Rook was silent, her gaze drifting to the numerous bangles on his wrists; a way to distance herself from the intensity of the situation. The sharp angles of his jawline, the smooth cadence of his voice, and the graceful movements of his hands held her completely captivated. He leaned forward, the weight of the conversation pressing down as if he sensed her attention drifting, a subtle shift in her focus that he picked up on instantly.

“The CCTV footage was insufficient to show Johanna throwing the paperwork. However, careful examination allows one to connect the pieces. You can see the papers flitting through the air. He produced his phone, explaining, “The documents weren’t on the floor when she came in, but they were when she left.”

He opened up the screen of his phone and pressed the middle button with a deliberate motion. Rook’s keen eyes quickly scanned the display, catching sight of several apps open in the background. Among them was the unmistakable border of Instafade, showcasing a picture of her in the crimson dress she had worn at the summer party. Her breath caught in her throat, a flutter of nervousness mixed with excitement, but she skillfully masked her emotions behind a calm facade.

After all, he had leaned forward, presenting his phone screen to her of his own accord. Still, she couldn’t shake the curiosity gnawing at her. Why had that particular picture remained on his device? It was, after all, one of the more revealing dresses she had chosen—a bold statement that made her feel both beautiful and vulnerable.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Emmrich tilted his phone to expand the screen, displaying the footage he had recorded. He held the phone out in her direction, and as their fingers momentarily brushed against each other, an electric jolt shot through her, causing her heart to race. Rook’s gaze flickered up to meet his, searching for any sign of shared connection. If he had felt anything in that split second, she would have doubted it. He maintained a neutral expression that offered no clues.

As Rook watched the video play, a sigh escaped her lips. With a tinge of frustration, she handed the phone back to him. “Be honest with me; it’s not enough, is it?”

Emmrich looked directly into her eyes, a serious expression settling on his face. “No, it’s not. Not yet.” He gently rested his palm over her forearm, and the warmth of his large, soft hand sent a spark of heat racing through her. “I don’t want you to worry about this. You’ve done nothing wrong; I can’t stress that enough. I’ve examined all the files related to complaints and grievances raised against Johanna. It’s clear that everyone’s concerns were stopped when they reached Solas. That will not happen while I’m in charge. No one should ever have to dread or fear coming into work.”

Rook bit her lip, absorbing his words, and nodded slowly, feeling a mix of gratitude and concern.

“It’s just so disheartening,” she replied, her voice softening. “Varric has always supported us; he would risk everything to take our concerns further, yet each time, it seems to get knocked back.” She heaved a sigh and hung her head, feeling a weight pressing down on her shoulders. “I love my job. Truly,” she added with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “And I’m not saying that just because you’re my boss’s boss.”

Emmrich chuckled, the tension in the room easing slightly. He withdrew his hand and leaned back in his chair, looking at her with an understanding expression.

“I love it here. But she makes it difficult—not just for me, but for everyone.”

“I need to apologise now. I will need to be professional in the meeting, and I would hate for-”

At that very moment, a phone call shattered the connection. Glancing at the screen, he picked it up. “I have to take this call,” he said, his tone shifting back to business. “But I would be delighted if we could continue this discussion later.” He smiled warmly at her, a look that held promise, before standing up and leaving the room.

____________

“Everything will be fine.” Neve tried to reassure Rook, who was anxiously pacing the hallway outside the conference room, her footsteps echoing against the polished tile.

Rook wrung her trembling hands together, her fingers interlaced as if trying to hold herself together. “I just want to get this over with.” Her voice was strained.

Neve stepped forward, her arms wrapping around Rook in a protective hug, gently resting her hand on the back of her friend’s head and stroking her hair in soothing motions. Pulling back slightly, Neve held Rook at arm’s length, her gaze reassuring. “You need to trust me and Varric about this.”

“What do you mean?” Rook’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring as she glared at Neve. It was clear she felt left out of some critical information, and the anxiety only deepened.

“Just agree and nod. Everything has been taken care of. Your statement, all of it—” Neve’s voice was firm, laced with urgency.

“But when did—” Rook began to protest, but Neve interrupted her, urgency cutting through her words.

“Read off the page, Rook. Trust me on this.”

At that moment, the door to the staff room swung open, and Johanna strode through, her demeanour all business. She barely glanced at either woman, her focus ahead. Varric followed closely behind her, his expression more relaxed, yet there was a hint of worry in his eyes as he caught sight of Rook.

“You’ll be fine, kiddo,” he said, a warm smile breaking through as he winked at her. He held the door to the conference room open; however, Rook merely shook her head, her gaze dropping to the floor, the load of uncertainty anchoring her in place.

“I need a second,” she said, walking away to lean against the wall near the large window overlooking the fountain. “Get it together, Rook.” Wrapped up in her own fucked up head, she didn’t hear the door beside her open as Myrna and Vorgoth walk through.

“Are you alright, Miss Ingellvar? Would you like a glass of water?” It was the first time she and Myrna had talked, and the woman’s voice was a lot more soothing than she looked.

Rook shook her head, politely declining.

Vorgoth looked at their watch. “THERE IS STILL TIME. JOIN US WHEN YOU ARE READY. PROFESSOR VOLKARIN IS ATTENDING TO AN IMPORTANT PHONE CALL AND WILL BE A FEW MINUTES.”

They left her alone.

Not now, not fucking now.

She pressed a hand to her chest as a sharp pain struck through the centre, and she took in a raspy breath.

A fucking panic attack?

Now of all time?!

It had been a month since she had one last. She placed a hand to rub at her breastbone, as if the movement would alleviate the pressure building. A pain seared at the back of her eyes, and pressure under her right eye.

Fuck fuck fuck.

A large hand on her back made her jump and pulled her from her reverie.

“Slow, deep breaths.” Emmrich’s voice was low as he stood behind her. “Breathe with me.” He took a hand in his, and she gripped it tightly. He watched her with rapt attention. “In slow, hold, and out.”

Rooks gasped for air, her breath catching in her throat.

“Darling, try again.” he took her other hand and pressed it against his chest. “Feel my breath. In….. Out…. Follow me this time.” He repeated the motions, tilting her face to look up at him. “Listen to my voice, my dear. I’ve got you.”

A noise escaped her throat once more, and it sounded as though she was about to cry. “Ivy, I am here. I won’t leave you.” His hazel eyes watched every movement she made, every flutter of her eyes as she blinked, every shaky breath she took until she calmed.

“Better?” Emmrich asked a while after her breathing returned to normal.

Rook nodded, her violet-brown eyes opening, but this time she avoided his hazel eyes. Rather than looking him in the eyes, she focused all her attention on the intricate knot of his tie, her gaze remaining fixed upon it until she finally summoned the necessary courage to meet his.

His voice dropped to a murmur as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you ready to begin?”

——————

As a gesture of courtesy, Emmrich held the door open, allowing Rook the precedence of entering first. In an effort to put as much distance as possible between herself and Johanna, she chose a seat on the far side of Varric, as far away as she could possibly get. His words of affection were so unexpected that she couldn’t process them immediately. Overwhelmed, she’d become consumed by her own thoughts.

Under the table, Neve discreetly squeezed her hand, pen and notepad at the ready. Varric slid a piece of paper across the table to Rook, who then carefully read the typed and printed notes prepared for her.

On the opposite side, Johanna sat in solitude, her attention seemingly drifting as she stared blankly at the polish on her nails. Myrna began to speak, yet she was met with silence and no acknowledgement from her.

“Good morning, everyone. Thank you for joining me today for this interview regarding the issue of bullying and the failure to comply with the code of conduct. The affected party is Ivy Ingellvar, who is present alongside her manager, Varric T., and her chosen witness, Neve Gallus. Neve has agreed to remain silent and only take notes on the events should Ivy feel the need to review them later. I understand that situations like this can be daunting. Johanna Hezenkoss has chosen not to have any witnesses present.” Myrna turned her head toward Emmrich, who gave a slight nod to signal his understanding.

“I, Professor Emmrich Volkarin, will ask the necessary questions for this investigation.

“Miss Ingellvar,” Emmrich said, glancing up as he addressed her. The expression on his face and the tone of his voice were notably different from how he had spoken to her outside. “Can you please share your experience with workplace bullying and the most recent events related to it?”

“Of course.” Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she swallowed hard as Varric indicated the document before her with a gesture. For the past three years, I have unfortunately been subjected to the ongoing and unacceptable harassment of bullying in my workplace. Initially, the harassment began subtly, manifesting as pointed comments and exclusion from team activities; however, the situation has now intensified to encompass direct verbal abuse and intimidation tactics. I’ve been experiencing a profound sense of isolation and debilitating anxiety that makes the thought of going to work each day incredibly stressful.”

“Please accept my deepest sympathies concerning your situation. Have you formally reported these incidents to any company personnel?”

“Yes,” Rook said, acknowledging Varric’s nod. “I raised this issue with my manager, who then escalated both my concerns and those of others.”

“I would like to hear about you today, Miss Ingellvar.” Emmrich said dismissively.

The impact of his words was such that her breath hitched in her throat, and she spent the rest of the meeting with her eyes cast down, unable to look up.

“Please continue,” Myrna was the one to speak.

“I escalated my concerns to head office, but they seemed to ignore them. I contacted the CEO directly, but nothing concrete was done to resolve the problem.” Rook took a deep breath, “I was told it was my word and against hers.”

“That must be frustrating. Have you noticed any impact on your work performance or mental well-being as a result of this bullying?” Emmrich looked up from his notes, his pen held idle in his hand, but to his dismay Rook’s eyes stared at the paper in front of her as she read off the page.

“Absolutely. It has been affecting my productivity and motivation at work. I find it difficult to concentrate and engage with my tasks, knowing that I might face more harassment. It has also taken a toll on my mental health, causing me stress and anxiety outside of work hours.”

“I understand this must be challenging, and I am grateful for your candor, Miss Ingellvar. We are committed to resolving this matter and fostering a safe and respectful workplace for all.” Emmrich paused for a moment as he reviewed his notes. “The most recent events occurred yesterday, and there were three separate instances,” he stated, outlining them for the purpose of the meeting.

In the corner of Rook’s eye, she noticed Johann’s posture change as she stopped fidgeting.

“I have witness statements for two of the three events, collected from individuals interviewed this morning. The incidents that occurred between 4:45 and 4:55 last night were unwitnessed; however, after reviewing the CCTV footage outside Miss Ingellvar’s office, we cannot confirm or deny what took place inside the room.”

Rook’s stomach sank with a sharp pang of sadness, prompting her to reach for Neve’s hand, concealed beneath the table.

“You see that this only benefits one person. A proper investigation of the complaints would have revealed that they all originated with Varric’s team. It’s plain to see who’s making these allegations and why.” Johanna  glared at the dwarf, but he remained impassive. “Your time here is limited, Volkarin. You’ll tank this bank in no time.” and she cackled to herself.

“With that statement, I have decided how we will conclude this meeting. The grievances raised have been upheld and logged on two out of three accounts, Miss Hezenkoss. Based on my review of previous records, I have found numerous complaints against you for similar matters. This behaviour will not be tolerated.” Emmrich linked his hands. “I would like to remind you that this week, the management position of this branch will be reduced from two to one. Instances like this, along with the comments I have heard from you, are working against you.”

Johanna tsked, and Emmrich’s expression grew stern as he leaned forward.

“You are on thin ice,” he hissed, the silence in the room deafening.

Rook found her mouth going dry. As if emerging from a trance, she slowly raised her eyes, their wide, startled look finally settling upon his face. A deep furrow creased his brow, the anger evident in the furious blaze of his hazel eyes. A tightening, coiling tension was building in her stomach.

“This is bullshit!” With a sudden movement, Johanna stood up and yelled. You won’t get rid of me! I work with idiots, and once you’ve conducted your research, you will see who the workers are.” She raised a finger and pointed in Rook’s direction. “And she is not one of them.”

“What is bullshit is how you have gotten away with you antics for so long. Clearly, there is more here than meets the eye in relation to you and Solas. Don’t think I’m incompetent to not see it.” Varric raised his voice.

“Enough!” Emmrich stood, his chair scraping on the floor. “I will not tolerate this. I will not tolerate bullying in the workplace. Miss Henzenkoss, this is your final warning. Another complaint of this severity this week, and you will be dismissed without the chance or opportunity to be in the running for the management position. Dismissal will be effective immediately with no six-month redundancy.” He leaned across the table. “I would seriously think about your actions and the consequences that come with them. They have hindered your future here at Volbank.”

Johanna stormed out of the room, muttering incoherently to herself. Her frustration was palpable, and the tension hung in the air after she left. With the door slamming shut after her departure, Emmrich thanked the trio for their attendance. His face set as he noticed that Rook wouldn’t look at him. He gestured to Myrna and Vorgoth to follow and left.

It had taken everything in her to stay composed while the grievances were aired — not just about Johanna’s behaviour, but how long it had gone unchecked. The words still echoed in her ears: intimidation, undermining, public shaming. Every sentence cracked open a memory she’d spent months trying to bury.

Then she felt it — warm and wet — slipping from her nose. A bright smear of red and droplets of blood marked the paper on the desk.

“Rook?” Varric’s voice dropped an octave.

“Tilt your head forward, not back,” Neve murmured, grabbing a tissue from her pocket and pressing it lightly to Rook’s nose. Her hands were calm, practised. “Breathe slowly. Breathe through your mouth.”

“You alright? That meeting was a bloodbath in more ways than one.” When Varric turned, his expression was unreadable — but his voice was gentle. “Take your time. We’re here.”

Neve held a tissue to Rook’s nose with one hand, the other resting lightly on her shoulder. “The stress is affecting your body. It doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

Rook gave a shaky breath, blinking through tears she hadn’t noticed forming. “It’s just… hearing it all out loud. Everything I kept telling myself wasn’t real. I thought maybe I was just being sensitive.”

“You weren’t,” Varric said, voice firmer now. “You were going through something awful. And today was the first time that truth didn’t just sit in silence. About fucking time.”

Neve nodded. “Johanna’s ego cracked today. That wasn’t easy, but you helped make it happen — just by enduring. By still being here.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Varric stood and offered his hand. “Let’s get you out of here and into the break room.”

Neve added, smiling slightly, “And perhaps some tea?”

Rook took their help, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel alone.

————

Rook settled onto a sun-warmed chair on the balcony of the break room, the gentle hum of the afternoon breeze brushing against her face. Neve had thoughtfully left her a glass of cold water, and after ensuring that her friend had calmed down—her usually pale complexion regaining some color—she left to return to her own tasks, allowing Rook a moment of respite.

The fresh air brought a sense of clarity, a welcome escape from the confines of the office. However, her solitude didn’t last long.

“Is this seat taken?” Emmrich’s voice, soft and approachable, cut through the sounds of rustling leaves and distant chatter, a stark contrast to the sternness he had displayed during the earlier meeting.

Rook gestured to the chair beside her, a silent invitation for him to join.

“I must apologize for being abrupt, Rook,” he began, his gaze steady and sincere as he regarded her. “I know she has negatively affected others in the office, but I couldn’t allow the conversation to stray from my original plan. I need to gather enough evidence, documented properly, to hold against her.”

A flicker of understanding crossed Rook’s face. “You were frustrated that it wasn’t enough, weren’t you?”

He paused, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Correct. Last night, when I learned what she had done to you, my first instinct was to dismiss her without severance pay. Financially, the decision wouldn’t impact the business. I just want to—” He hesitated, weighing his words carefully.

“What? Screw her over?” Rook’s tone was blunt, revealing her unfiltered thoughts.

He smirked at her candidness. “In a way, yes.” A brief smile crossed his lips, but it vanished as he noticed her rubbing her temples, the slight furrow appearing on his brow. “It seems you read me a little too well, something no one has ever managed before.”

His hand reached out to rest gently on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” He studied her intently, worry etched into his features. “Have you had a nosebleed?”

Rook instinctively touched her nose, half-expecting a sign of distress.

“There’s no blood there. But I can see in your eyes that something isn’t right.”

“I’ll be fine.” She rose from her chair, and his hand fell back into his lap, a reluctant retreat. “Honestly, Emmrich, I’m okay.”

“Do you want me to escort you home?”

“I have too much work to do.”

Emmrich sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Then promise me you’ll take regular breaks and stay hydrated.”

“As you say, Professor.” A playful smile danced across her lips, one that seemed to lighten the atmosphere. She bid him farewell, her heart lighter, and headed back to her room.

————————

Emmrich watched her go.

Rook’s silhouette disappeared beyond the doorway, but her presence lingered in the air like a fading perfume—sharp, alluring, and impossible to ignore. The sway of her hips wasn’t exaggerated, and yet, it held a grace that set his nerves on edge. Everything about her was effortless, natural, magnetic. And it was that ease—so completely unforced—that made her all the more devastating.

Emmrich let out a breath and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, trying to regain control of his body—and his thoughts. Fade take him, he cursed inwardly, adjusting his posture in an attempt to disguise the obvious reaction between his legs. It was more than just desire now.

So much more.

It was the fierce, unsettling protectiveness that gripped him like a vice around his ribs. Watching her endure that meeting—head held low as she trembled—had twisted something inside him. He wasn’t just drawn to her; he was invested.

He wanted her safe.

Heard.

Wanted.

And not just in the physical sense, though his body was still traitorously alive with excitement. He wanted to shield her from the ugliness that had been allowed to rot unchecked in this company. From people like Johanna. From people like Solas. From the silent bystanders who had let it go on for years.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He had always been so good at compartmentalizing—work, leadership, intimacy—each locked neatly in its own box. But with Rook, the lines were blurring too quickly, too fiercely. She wasn’t a simple distraction. She was a storm—quiet and unassuming until she was at full force, then impossible to ignore.

He hadn’t meant to touch her like that outside the conference room before the meeting—hadn’t planned on her panic attack pulling him in so fully. But the second her fingers gripped his, everything else melted away. He would have stayed there all morning if she’d needed it. The feeling of her breath syncing with his had been more intimate than anything he had experienced in a long, long time.

Now, with the meeting over and her scent still lingering, he knew he was already in too deep.

He needed to pull back. He was her superior, the company’s leader—he couldn’t afford to feel this way.

And yet…

The way she’d said “Professor,” and flashed that smile—it had lit a fire under his skin. The blush that crept into his cheeks had been involuntary, and embarrassing, and so utterly human. Her smile was like a secret—one he suddenly wanted to be worthy of.

He let out a soft, humourless laugh and leaned back in the chair, eyes staring up at the sky.

What the fuck are you doing, Emmrich? You’re two decades older than her.

But he already knew. He was falling into something dangerous. Something real. Something that would demand more from him than a line of policy or a signature on paper.

And no amount of cold water or logical thinking was going to extinguish what had started.

Not now.

Not with her.

Chapter Text

Day Two - Part Two

It was well into the afternoon when Rook found herself in the familiar confines of her office, surrounded by the comforting, if chaotic, disarray of papers and files. The sun streamed through the window, casting a warm glow over her workspace, but she felt cold and distant from it all. She was diligently filling out and meticulously checking off the paperwork she and Neve had managed to sort through earlier that morning before the meeting. Neve had her workload and a series of appointments lined up with some of the wealthiest clients in Nevarra, leaving Rook to wrestle with her thoughts.

Emmrich had explicitly requested that she be left alone. A request that was going unnoticed as messages popped up on her screen. Despite the flurry of nudges and private messages demanding her attention and soliciting her help or advice, Rook resolutely ignored them as best she could. Instead, she returned to her usual responses, referring her colleagues to one of the more experienced team members or sending them links to the comprehensive company archive that detailed the myriad policies and procedures in place.

However, her focus waned as time dragged on. A slew of thoughts swirled in her mind, dragging her into a trance. She stared blankly at her laptop screen more than once, seemingly detached from the task at hand. The morning events still loomed in her mind, and she felt exposed. Vulnerable. Uncharacteristically weak, as if she were losing control over her thoughts and emotions.

A familiar knock at the door broke the silence that had settled in the room, and Varric stepped inside, his brow furrowing with concern as he assessed the mountain of paperwork scattered around her. “Hey, kid. How’s it going?” he inquired, his eyes moving over the stacks of documents that seemed to multiply by the minute. The pile waiting to be completed stood twice the size she had managed to finish.

“Getting there,” she sighed, rubbing her tired hand over her face in an attempt to dispel her growing anxiety. “It’s just that… after this morning, I can’t seem to focus like I normally do.”

“Not enough coffee?” With a light teasing tone and the warmth of his voice, he managed to penetrate the thick fog of her thoughts, breaking through her otherwise preoccupied state of mind.

“Never enough!” she shot back, the corner of her mouth quirking up slightly, grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood.

“Why don’t I pop out and grab us an iced latte or something?” Varric suggested.

A silent moment passed between them as Rook considered his words, her gaze steady on his before narrowing her eyes. “Spit it out,” she demanded, sensing what he was about to do.

Varric chuckled softly, shaking his head as if to dismiss her instincts. “I forget you know me too well. Come on, how about you take a walk with me? You could really use a break.”

With a resigned smile, Rook grabbed her phone and followed Varric out of the building. They walked at a leisurely pace across the road to the cafe, the sunlight warming their skin and momentarily banishing the shadows of her worries.

Once inside, they ordered their iced drinks and took a seat outside, where the sounds of the bustling street blended into a soothing backdrop. Varric remained silent during their stroll, and she appreciated his quietness; it allowed her to collect her scattered thoughts..

“So, Friday night, Emmrich is arranging a night at The Diamond—” Rook’s body froze at the mention of the place. She listened intently, holding her breath. “—a celebration, as it were, for those who stay. Lucanis offered to speak with Illario to arrange something special.”

Rook’s eyes shifted, fixated on the beads of condensation rolling down the side of her cup, her mind racing. The Diamond was a luxury venue, but for her, it was now haunted by unsettling memories.

“I wanted you to hear it from me,” Varric said, his voice softening as he pulled his chair closer, creating a bubble of sincerity around them. “Kid?” he asked, his tone laced with concern.

As she shook her head subtly, Rook took a hesitant sip of her drink, her hope being that its refreshing chill would uplift her mood.

—

The night was meant to be lighthearted—a Friday evening designed to relieve the stress from a particularly demanding quarter. However, Rook hadn’t anticipated that Lucanis’s cousin, Illario, would join their group. For months, his interest in her had been painfully obvious, expressed relentlessly through messages on Fadebook and Instafade. Initially flattered by his attention, she enjoyed the compliments, even though his confidence often bordered on cockiness.

As the evening progressed, Illario insisted on getting her a drink from the bar—a cocktail—and urged her to drink it, a level of persuasion that now seemed alarming. Anger simmered beneath the surface as she reflected on how easily she had overlooked the warning signs. She had engaged in his friendly banter, allowing him to remain by her side throughout the evening, trading jokes and whispers that now felt bitter. His charm seemed forced, overeager, and desperate.

After she had more than half-finished her drink, he leaned in for a kiss, a move that jolted her with uncertainty. The combination of alcohol and loud music clouded her memories. Shortly after, he attempted to lead her to a private room, but Neve intervened, noticing her distress. Although Rook was admittedly drunk, she had never been in such a state of inebriation that she lost control of her speech and movements. The night dissolved into a blurry rush of intoxication, leaving only fleeting fragments of laughter and indistinct faces.

The following day, she awoke on Neve’s sofa, feeling sick and worse than a typical hangover. A medical examination revealed traces of an unknown drug in her system, a sobering revelation. She never told Illario that she knew what he’d done; instead, she convinced Neve that excessive alcohol on an empty stomach was to blame. However, Neve wasn’t fooled; she knew Rook had been drugged. The only person who knew the truth was Varric. After her medical visit, she sought him out, sitting at his kitchen table and confiding in him, tears streaming down her face.

—

“Rook?” Varric’s voice cut through her spiralling thoughts.

“Sorry,” she muttered, blinking rapidly as she snapped back to the present.

“I’ve tried to deter Emmrich from booking the place,” he continued, his voice steady and serious. “I don’t want to share what happened unless you give me the green light. I can keep it anonymous. It’ll make him see why I keep suggesting alternative locations.”

Fuck, she thought, imagining how Emmrich would respond to such disturbing news, particularly after the unpleasantness of the earlier meeting.

“Keep names out of it,” she reiterated cautiously.

“Of course! But he’s smart; he’ll piece it together eventually,” Varric countered, leaning back in his chair, his expression heavy with burden. “Seems I’m not the only one who feels protective of you.”

His words, weighty and impactful, remained suspended in the silence between them, causing Rook’s heart to pound as she clamped down on her cheek, wrestling with the tumultuous tide of feelings that threatened to consume her.

“I never want you to feel uncomfortable, kid. You’re expected to be there, and knowing this, I didn’t think it was right to stay quiet. Just know that I’m trying to sort things out. So if you hear any gossip around the office about the party, ignore it, alright?”

“I might not even be kept on,” Rook said, her tone half-hearted.

“That’s the biggest load of nug shit I’ve ever heard. He will keep you. He sees your worth.” Varric sighed. “Besides, if I see that arrogant jerk’s face again…” Varric trailed off, his eyes darkening with a touch of fury. “I can’t be held responsible for what I might do to him.”

——

**5:06 PM**

Lucanis pushed open the door and entered Rook’s office. “Ready to go?” he asked, his patience laced with worry.

Rook let out a weary sigh, her gaze sweeping over the neatly stacked papers that littered her desk. “I’m nearly done. Maybe another hour,” she offered, though it was a lie, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he might see through it. “I have to wrap this up by 11:59 PM, or we’ll breach protocol. That’s the last thing we need, especially with everyone under review.”

Lucanis tilted his head, a slight furrow in his brow. “Want me to stay? I can tell Neve to go home.”

“No, honestly, it’s fine,” she replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s probably best I finish this on my own. I’ll focus better that way.” Then, quickly changing the subject, she asked, “Have all the end-of-day checks been completed?”

“All done,” he confirmed, his tone now more reassuring.

“Great!” Rook replied, feeling a flicker of relief. “Once I’m finished here, I can lock up. Is Varric gone?” They had spoken since their silent walk back to the office after leaving the cafe.

“Not yet. Neve said he was going to see the big boss before leaving.”

“Okay, I’ll message in our group chat when I get home,” Rook said, reaching for her phone. With that, Lucanis exited, leaving her alone in the quiet of the room. The faint buzz of her music filled the space, a soothing backdrop as she immersed herself in her work.

Time slipped away—an hour trickled into two. The glowing screen in front of her displayed five more cases waiting for her attention. Overwhelmed by fatigue, she fought back a yawn, her eyelids heavy and blinking against the overwhelming tiredness that enveloped her. A sudden vibration jolted her from her thoughts, causing her to pick up her phone, where she saw several flashing notifications on FadeApp, briefly distracting her from her responsibilities.

NEVE: Are you ok? x

ROOK: Yes, still here. Shouldn’t be much longer. Will message when I am done x

NEVE: Did Varric speak to you about Friday? x

Rook began to type a reply, but after some thought, decided to delete the message before sending it. Because she desperately needed to finish her work and avoid being pulled under, she forced herself to concentrate and stay focused on the task at hand, resisting the urge to get sidetracked. It was already a long and gruelling day, sustained only by copious amounts of caffeine and painkillers, and a rising tide of anxiety was threatening to erupt.

Work chat:

Varric has added Emmrich Volkarin to the chat.

EMMRICH V: Thank you all for your hard work today. I understand that change can be challenging, but I want us to collaborate to make this the best place for everyone. I extend my heartfelt gratitude to everyone I interviewed today. For those who have not yet met with me, Myrna, or Vorgoth, interviews will take place tomorrow. Please rest assured that I am committed to ensuring the best outcomes for both the company and your future careers. I want to emphasise the importance of creating a safe and confidential environment. Have a wonderful evening!

The message received a number likes and hearts. Underneath, his message sat.

BELLARA: Did anyone see Rook leave the office?

LUCANIS: I checked on her before leaving; she still had work to do. Insisted she wanted to be alone.

BELLARA: Damn wrong chat (an emoji of a face palm)

DAVRIN: (Laughing emoji)

Her phone vibrated, and she saw a new chat thread pop up.

EMMRICH V: Evening, are you still at the office?

ROOK: Hi, yes. I have a few cases left to finish off.

EMMRICH V: Do you need assistance? I’m just finishing myself off.

Rook gasped, her breath catching sharply in her throat. The metallic tang of blood filled her mouth as she bit her lip, her heart racing against her ribs. Hot and urgent, her instincts clawed at her, urging her to help him, to reach out. Flirting with the boss’s boss sent a chill of fear coursing through her. Yet a strange, intoxicating, and dangerous pull held her captive. He responded before she could even form a coherent thought in her mind.

EMMRICH V: I MEAN FINISHING OFF MYSELF. AS IN MY WORK.

EMMRICH V: Please accept my deepest apologies

EMMRICH V: (sad faced emoji)

A wicked smile curved her lips.

ROOK: I could go for a coffee, if you fancy making me one?

Rook set her phone down on the cluttered desk surface with a soft thud, an unexpected warmth creeping into her cheeks as her mind started to wander. When Emmrich pushed open her office door, the hinges creaking softly, he carried two steaming mugs in his hands. Ans was brought back to the now, pressing her thighs together.

“I was contemplating the idea of asking my boss’s boss for a pay rise,” she announced casually, lifting the warm mug to her lips. She lightly blew on the surface, watching the steam rise and dance, a small smile playing on her lips. “After all, he can’t even make me a cup of coffee,” she added with a teasing lilt, a playful sparkle igniting in her eyes, as she shot him a sidelong glance.

Emmrich raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering as he set his own mug down on her desk, the ceramic clinking against the wood. “I was, in fact, pondering the mystery of your coffee consumption,” he replied, gesturing theatrically toward the small army of empty and half-full mugs that lined her corner table from that day. A warm, genuine smile spread across his lips, illuminating his face and enhancing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Rook chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “I like how you creatively dodged the topic of my pay rise,” she quipped, leaning back in her chair, the soft fabric moulding to her form as she felt a mix of amusement and curiosity welling up inside her. His presence washed over her, a wave of tranquility washing away the stress of the day; she felt a sense of ease she hadn’t felt all day, and it was because of him.

Emmrich sat facing her. “Let’s see where this week takes us, shall we? There are new job opportunities on the horizon and potential pay increases,” he said, his tone measured and thoughtful, as if weighing the possibilities in a delicate balance. “But I need to ensure that I find the right person to fill those roles.”

Rook closed her eyes briefly, savouring the warm, intricate flavours of her drink as she took another sip. “Mmm, that’s good,” she murmured, her voice softening into a melody of delight at the beverage.

“Honey and lavender,” he informed her, a hint of pride weaving through his words. “Excellent for helping one to relax,” he continued, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and understanding, as if sharing a delightful secret.

“Let’s hope I don’t relax too soon,” she replied, a light laugh escaping her lips like a burst of air. “I still need to get this scanned into the database before I can truly unwind.”

Emmrich’s curiosity sharpened as he tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting to one of intrigue. “I’m curious—why the buildup?”

“Would you like the truth?”

“Of course,” he crossed his leg, his ankle resting on his knee, and Rook’s eyes wandered down his frame, her eyes skimming over his bulge and the way his trousers pressed against him.

Hello, big boy. She thought. I guess it’s true about what they say about tall men and big feet…

With a shaky hand and her eyes fixed downward, Rook reviewed the paperwork as she signed it. However, she yearned to look at him, especially as he shifted, his posture widening, making the form of his body almost visible beneath the material. She chewed on her lip.

“This should be a shared responsibility between me, Lucanis, Varric, and Johanna,” Rook said firmly, though her voice held a trace of frustration. “My error-to-work ratio is nonexistent—zero percent. “Unfortunately, Johanna’s made quite a few mistakes,” she sighed, shaking her head. “In every other case, there have been errors, and addressing them would mean a significant amount of rework. Lucanis and I can’t override Johanna’s work, as she holds a higher position than we do. This, of course, means that Varric has to double-check her work, and it becomes too overwhelming for him. He has enough to manage. That’s when I decided to step in and take on the extra burden.”

Emmrich remained silent, observing her closely as she spoke. He noted her candidness, a quality he genuinely appreciated—for many, such honesty was a rare trait.

Lucanis is excellent at customer interaction. He struggles, though, when the work requires such precision. Sometime ago, he made a serious error, and Johanna scolded him for it. The experience severely damaged his confidence. So, it’s just more practical if I take care of things.” She paused to take a sip of her drink, her brow slightly furrowed.

“Do you often work late?” Emmrich asked, his disapproval evident on his face as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “And what about overtime? Do you receive it?”

“Yes, I usually work late at least twice a week, but the answer to your second question is no,” Rook replied, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Varric raised the issue of overtime a while back, but head office informed us that we’re over staffed and that there’s no allowance for overtime if we can’t get it done effectively.”

Emmrich’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “That won’t be the case from now on,” he stated firmly, a hint of determination in his voice.

“I promise I won’t take advantage of the situation,” Rook reassured him, her tone sincere. “I don’t have much of a social life as it is, but I don’t want to be stuck here until after 5 several times a week. That’s not ideal for anyone.”

Emmrich drained the last of his mug and set it down with a decisive clank. “Hand me some of the work, and I’ll assist with the scanning. It’ll be more efficient if the two of us tackle it together.”

Rook hesitated. “No, please, Emmrich,” she pleaded, the timber in her voice sounding almost desperate, and he found he appreciated the way his name rolled off her tongue when she said it that way. It made his jaw tense and his cock ache. “You have a life outside of this place, too, you know?”

“Like you, Rook, I don’t have much of a social life either,” he replied, a hint of empathy in his tone.

They shared a moment of quiet understanding, their gazes steady and unyielding, with an atmosphere of comfort building between them. Rook busied herself gathering a few of the scattered items on her desk, taking solace in the small task. “Shall I show you how to operate the scanner first?” she offered, breaking the pleasant quiet.

Emmrich stood up, removing his tie and jacket before loosening the top button of his shirt, preparing to get to work.

“So,” hopped off the chair. Emmrich tilted his head slightly, glancing down at her with curiosity. He noticed her bare feet on the floor, her toenails painted the same colour as her fingernails, a matte black.

“Swipe your card here, then press this button and this one,” she instructed while demonstrating the process, unaware that he was watching her intently, his pulse quickening. “Next, hit start.” They observed as the first stack of documents was fed into the machine. “It’s repetitive, but it doesn’t require much effort,” Rook explained. “Once everything has been scanned, I will print the end-of-day report and ensure all items have been delivered. After that, we can finally call it a night.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Emmrich agreed, nodding as they settled into a rhythm.

The two worked side by side, and Rook couldn’t help but notice how Emmrich was not only fast, but impressively meticulous and precise in his tasks. His strong work ethic impressed her, explaining his success as a CEO and businessman. He didn’t miss a detail, and he wasn’t someone you could push around. However, the intimate side he’d only revealed to her during their private moments over the past two days set her heart racing. With soft music playing on the radio, Rook absentmindedly hummed along. His presence surprisingly calmed and reassured her, a sensation she hadn’t anticipated.

Not a good idea, Rook! Don’t get any wild ideas! She mentally chided herself, trying to dismiss the growing warmth in her chest.

She drained the last of her tea, placed the mug down, and signed off on the final document. Stretching in her chair, her back released a satisfying crack.

“If I take this lot,” she said, picking up two-thirds of the documents left, “I’ll head next door and use the scanner over there.”

Emmrich didn’t respond as his phone rang. “My apologies,” he said, stepping away.

“It’s okay; I can manage,” Rook replied, taking over from him. By the time he returned, another half an hour had slipped by, and she was almost finished with her scanning. Her hair was pulled up high in a ponytail, and she was stretching her back.

“Rook, I’m terribly sorry; I had to take tha—” Emmrich began as he walked back in, but his words trailed off as he caught sight of her. Rook was bent over facing away from him, her feet firmly planted on the floor as her hands rested beside them, stretching out her taut muscles. His hazel eyes went instantly to the round curve of her ass.

Maker!

“I’m almost done,” she said, slowly reclining upright and releasing the tension in her back and neck with a series of satisfying clicks.

“Are you feeling sore?” Emmrich asked, his tone surprisingly courageous. “I have a knack for the finer points of anatomy and could give you a decent massage if you’re struggling. Or if you’d prefer, I can connect you with someone who specialises in that kind of help.”

Although it might be considered inappropriate, she couldn’t deny that her muscles ached from sitting at her desk for hours on end.

“Do you ever experience back pain from sitting at your desk for too long?” she inquired, her curiosity piqued.

“If I’ve been seated for an extended period, absolutely,” he replied matter-of-factly. “That’s why it’s crucial to stretch and take short walks regularly to keep the body limber and reduce strain.”

With a lip-biting gesture, she pondered her choices. “Would it be too much to ask...?” she began, but shook her head, second-guessing her request.

“My dear, I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t mean it,” Emmrich reassured her, a warm smile playing on his lips.

The endearment caused her heart to flutter with excitement. His expression remained devoid of regret; as he advanced, she unconsciously shifted, her ponytail sweeping across her shoulder. Expertly, his hands, firm yet gentle, kneaded away the tension in her shoulders. A moan threatened to escape as she clamped her jaw shut, the pressure intensified when his hand found the sensitive area of her right shoulder.

“Ah, I can feel the knots,” he murmured, his fingers working intricately along her muscles. “And if I do this…” He slipped an arm around her, applying pressure just right, and she heard a satisfying crack echo in the quiet room. A moan escaped her lips, a reaction she hadn’t expected. The sound was louder and more ragged than she expected, and he instinctively moved away, noticing how close her rear was to him. She was almost certain she heard him groan in response to the noise she made.

“That was beautiful!” Rook exclaimed, a hint of joy in her voice. “Thank you.”

She turned to him, but he bypassed her, a satisfied grin spreading across his face, hurrying to the scanner to retrieve the documents.

“Why don’t you take the cups to the dishwasher?” He suggested. “I’ll take care of finishing this and getting the report printed.”

As he turned his attention to the machine, Rook couldn’t help but wonder about the motivations behind his eagerness to help her. Her thoughts raced—was there something more to this generous offer?

——-

Maker take him.

The sounds she made went straight to his cock, and he was hard in an instant. Emmrich stepped towards the scanning desk, hoping to hide the prominent erection straining against his trousers. It took him longer than he’d like to settle himself, but by the time she returned, he’d printed the final report for her to review, and his arousal had subsided—barely. He leaned over her as she sat in her office chair and went over the data. He would’ve listened to her recite the alphabet on loop just to hear the sound of her voice. When they locked up the building, Emmrich insisted on giving her a lift home. She agreed.

Emmrich held the car door open, and she smiled up at him, eyes a stunning shade of violet-brown framed by thick, dark lashes. She gave him quiet directions, and when they pulled up to her place, she thanked him.

He watched as she stepped out of the car with effortless grace. As she leaned in to say goodnight, the angle of her blouse offered a tantalizing view of the black lace and curves underneath.

“Goodnight, Emmrich.”

“Goodnight, Ivy.”

——————————

He was home not long after, heading straight for the shower. By the time he unbuckled his belt, he was already hard again—and this time; he didn’t need his phone. He didn’t need anything but the memory of her.

The sounds she made when he touched her back—soft moans, the sharp inhale when his fingers brushed her shoulder—were etched into his mind.

“Ivy…” he muttered.

Steam curled around him as he stepped beneath the hot spray. The water flowed over his lean, strong physique. He wrapped one hand around his thick cock, skin slick and hot. With a low groan, he began to stroke, pulling back slowly at first, savouring the tension already building low in his belly.

Her scent still clung to him—warm, floral, unmistakably her. He remembered the feel of her skin under his palm, the way she’d looked up at him through those lashes, cheeks flushed, lips parted. He’d seen her glance between his legs when he sat down earlier, seen the glimmer in her eyes at what she imagined, what she wanted.

“Fuck,” he hissed, grip tightening.

His pace quickened, each stroke driven by the picture in his head: Ivy on her knees, lips wrapped around him, her mouth warm and wet and eager. He’d let her take her time, tease him with slow strokes of her tongue, until he was pleading for release—until she tasted him, swallowed him. Until he could watch her eyes flutter shut while he came down her throat.

“Ivy,” he gasped again, the name rolling off his tongue like desperation.

He braced one hand against the wall, his hips flexing. The image shifted: her, laid out beneath him, thighs spread wide, slick and ready. He would devour her like a starving man, feasting on her. He pictured her next, sprawled naked and flushed on the bed, her thighs spread wide, wet and needy, begging for him to taste her. By burying his face between her legs, he would make her quiver with pleasure as he worshipped her completely. He wouldn’t stop until she came against his mouth, soaking his tongue and screaming his name.

And he wouldn’t stop until she begged.

The coil snapped.

The force of his release manifested as a loud, untamed, guttural sound.

Hot cum spilled over his hand, shot onto the tiles and down the drain as the water kept pounding against his skin. His body shook, breath ragged, knees threatening to give.

With his chest heaving, he pressed his forehead to the wall.

Even after it was all done, his mind was still on her. After scrubbing himself and his hair, he adjusted the shower temperature, yet his arousal persisted, craving more.

And he knew that only her touch, her mouth, would do.

Chapter Text

Day Three: Part One

Unable to sleep, Rook tossed and turned, unable to sleep because her mind was racing. Having drifted to sleep at 1:30 AM, she was completely awake by 2:25 AM, scrolling through Emmrich’s Instafade feed. The image of Emmrich sat in the driver’s seat, his face calm and composed, sat at the forefront of her mind. His wonderful hazel eyes glimmered with restraint as they passed by the streets, and the streetlights reflected off him. She caught fleeting glances of him, unnoticed, she thought, until he smirked at her. His flexing jaw and the arch of his lips made a powerful impression on her. She couldn’t shake the image, even once she was in bed. The thin covers offered little protection against the cool night air wafting in through the open window, yet the persistent, deep ache in her abdomen remained.

FadeApp Notification

EMMRICH: Having trouble sleeping?

Rook’s fingers hovered above the keyboard as she typed back, her heart racing slightly.

ROOK: What gave you that idea?! (Sad face emoji)

EMMRICH: Just an inkling. Were you able to sleep?

ROOK: About 45 minutes... how about you?

EMMRICH: I find myself deep in thought, burning the midnight oil.

Rook frowned, wondering what could occupy his mind at this hour.

ROOK: With what exactly?

He was typing, indicated by three dots that appeared and then vanished on the screen. The same thing happened on two more occasions.

Rook rolled her eyes at herself. Great job, Rook, she thought, mentally kicking herself for attempting to chat with a CEO—someone so far removed from her everyday life that it seemed absurd. She turned over, face-planting into her pillow and letting out a half-hearted scream of frustration.

EMMRICH: You still haven’t told me why you’re called Rook.

ROOK: Next time we work late, I’ll tell you then.

EMMRICH: I am looking forward to it with great interest. When do you expect that to happen? (winking emoji)

She couldn’t help but notice a warm flutter at what she assumed was his playful tone.

ROOK: You need to rest; otherwise, you’ll be grumpy by 9 AM. And I don’t want that impacting my interview tomorrow.

EMMRICH: Well, I find myself invested in something pleasant right now, and I find myself not wanting to tear away.

ROOK: Talking with a staff employee whom you spoke with hours ago?

Feeling a mix of boldness and mischief, Rook snapped a quick selfie of herself curled up in bed, hair pulled up high, showing the curve of her neck, and one strap to her vest top off the shoulder, before following it up with a photo of her cosy bedroom adorned with soft blankets and dim lights. She sent it off, heart racing as she sat up, nervously chewing her lip, waiting for the green ticks to appear, confirming he had seen them.

When his response finally popped up, it was a picture of his main suite—a spacious, elegantly decorated room that exuded sophistication. A large TV hung on the wall, and a stylish fireplace. Yet before she could examine the room more, the following image made her breath catch: it was Emmrich without a shirt, his hair tousled and damp as if he had just showered.

“Ding fucking dong!” Rook exclaimed out loud. The heat in her belly was growing out of control like a wild fire on a scorching summer’s day. Giving in to her desires, she opened her bedside drawer, took out her vibrator, and set her phone aside.

On the verge of ecstasy, her breath quickening, her phone illuminated, shattering the moment.

EMMRICH CALLING.

“Shiiiiiittttt!!!” Rook gasped, realising the terrible timing; it felt as though he somehow knew what she was doing. She was so close to finishing that talking to him was out of the question; she wouldn’t let this orgasm slip away. Torn between declining and answering, she fumbled with her phone, her nervousness overriding her better judgment. Instead of hitting decline, her thumb trembled, and she hit answer.

As she reached the peak, a second look at her phone caused her to drop it, while she was still whispering his name. With a quick, deep breath, she picked up her phone. There was no way she could deny how flustered she sounded as she answered, “H-Hi.”

“Are you alright?” Emmrich’s voice came through, smooth yet laced with something she couldn’t work out.

“Hmm….yes….I was yawning and stretching, and I dropped my phone,” she lied, hoping he couldn’t detect the slight crack in her voice.

“Sounds like a pleasant stretch,” he replied, his voice dropping to a lower tone, and to Rook, there was an unmistakable hint of amusement in his tone. She was relieved he couldn’t see how red her face was. A whirlwind of excitement, anxiety, and a more profound, unacknowledged feeling washed over her. “How is your neck?”

“My neck feels so much better,” Rook said, as if trying to change the course of the conversation.

“You truly indulge me, my dear.”

Oh fuck! She placed her vibrator beside her, and the heat was still there. The broken attempt at orgasm and being ended short, sizzling within. The way he spoke to her had her thighs clenching, and she knew in that instant what she was going to do when the call ended.

Hesitantly, she asked, “I hope I’m not overstepping, but how has your week been so far? The process of integrating with over thirty staff members whilst making critical decisions must be rather overwhelming.”

“I’m a smart man,” he replied, confidence infusing his tone. “This afternoon, I conducted half of the one-on-one interviews myself. Myrna and Vorgoth conducted a fair amount between them. The rest will take place tomorrow morning. Aren’t you curious about who is conducting your interview?”

Rook played with her lip. “Does it matter?”

“Darling, would you prefer it remain a surprise?” He sounded disappointed that she wasn’t playing into his game.

“You?”

“Would that please you?”

“I might.” Silence. “And judging by your lack of words, that’s not the answer you were hoping for?”

He laughed. She could hear it through the phone, coming from deep within his chest.

A knot of trepidation formed in Rook’s stomach. “So, by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll know if I have a job or not?” she asked, her voice tinged with apprehension.

He paused, his tone shifting to one of gravity. “I will meet with Myrna and Vorgoth tomorrow afternoon to complete my recommendations. I will make the announcements on Thursday morning.”

“Great,” she muttered wryly, feeling the weight of impending doom. “So, I have another sleepless night ahead of me tomorrow?”

“Do you really think so little of yourself?” he asked, his voice firm yet laced with a softness that made her feel uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“I work hard—too hard sometimes,” she confessed. “I could sell water to a fish, and I’m honestly half the reason our customer satisfaction scores are so high. Customers leave glowing reviews, rating me five stars. Well, only my boss’s boss can ultimately decide if they think I’m worthy of staying.” Her frustration bubbled to the surface, each word infused with determination.

“I have your file right here,” he stated nonchalantly.

Rook felt her heart plummet. This wasn’t just a friendly chat with a flirty stranger; this was her boss’s boss, and the words that had just escaped her a few moments prior. She couldn’t help but slap her forehead in frustration, regretting her candidness.

“Your resume is quite impressive,” he continued, seemingly unfazed by her moment of quiet. “If you were applying externally, I would have snapped you up for a role much higher than where you are now.”

The tension on the phone crackled as she took a steadying breath. “Well, it seems it’s a good thing I’m lower down on the frontline. You wouldn’t be able to afford me,” she retorted playfully, a lighter mood enveloping her as it earned a soft chuckle from him again. That sweet sound sent delightful shivers coursing through her, causing her toes to curl involuntarily in response.

“Varric seems rather harsh on you, doesn’t he?” he remarked casually, though his tone was probing.

“Considering…?” Rook retorted, her heart rate quickening.

“It appears you are well-acquainted. He’s married and has children; he’s charismatic. I feel compelled to ask, though I do so with reservations, if a romantic affair exists between you both?”

Laughter erupted from Rook, unexpected and joyous, as she pulled the phone away from her face. For a fleeting moment, she revelled in the absurdity of his question, tears streaming down her cheeks from the hilarity before she composed herself and returned to the call. “That is, without a doubt, the funniest thing I have ever heard.”

“I’m glad I amuse you, my dear,” he replied, warmth spilling from his tone, but she could detect a sharp edge lurking beneath.

“Varric is my uncle,” she clarified, the sudden silence on his end of the line underscoring the surprise that had caught him off guard.

“My apologies. I had thought…,” he trailed off, a note of sheepishness seeping into his voice.

“That I was sleeping with him?” she interjected, half-teasing yet genuinely curious about his thoughts, now fully aware of the misunderstandings that danced between them.

“Indeed,” he replied earnestly. A glimpse of his face was what she desired in that instant. “I had wondered why he praised you above the others, but—”

“He’s harder on me than anyone else,” Rook interjected, her voice resolute. “He knows my limits and trusts that I can deliver without reservation. What he says may seem harsh, but it comes from a place of genuine concern. He knows how to handle me,” she explained, her confidence unwavering.

“I am terribly sorry for my assumption,” he responded, a hint of sincerity breaking through down the line.

“I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me,” Rook offered, a playful lilt that pulled him in. “You can buy me a coffee in the morning. A caramel latte, if you please.”

“Just coffee?”

“I expect it to be on my desk by 9:01 AM and no later,” she warned, a teasing smile playing on her lips that came across when she spoke. “Or I will inform our new CEO. I’d rather not see that person’s temper. It’s rumoured they have a bad side I’d rather not witness.”

“I’ve heard he’s a bit of a dragon.” Emmrich played along, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Yet perhaps he’s a driven individual who knows exactly what or who he wants.”

Maintaining her playful mood, she pushed the boundaries slightly. “And what’s that, Professor Volkarin?”

He chuckled deeply, a rich sound that captivated her. “Let’s save that discussion for later, shall we, Miss Ingellvar?”

A mix of excitement and anticipation caused Rook’s heart to accelerate.

“One question before you go, Emmrich,” she said, her tone shifting suddenly to seriousness, the playful banter replaced by a weighty inquiry.

“Of course, my dear girl, you can ask me anything,” he replied, his voice warm and encouraging her.

“Considering recent changes, where will your permanent location of work be?” she inquired, a sense of urgency in her voice.

“Well, I had originally planned to oversee the shifts in your branch for the first several weeks,” he explained, his voice sounded focused. “It is the leading branch for FBC, after all. You and your team manage over seventy-five per cent of the wealthiest clientele that FBC has. My role here is to identify inefficiencies and refine the workflow to improve efficiency. Pull out the weeds as if they were. Once this branch is operating smoothly, I will facilitate a rollout across the remaining branches. I intend to hasten these changes, and I realise that I’ll need to visit each location for formal introductions. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, it does,” Rook replied, absorbing the magnitude of his ambitious plan, her mind racing with implications.

“Does that pose an issue for you?” he probed, and Rook heard him shifting,

“That depends,” she mused, contemplating the weight of his words and what they might mean for her future.

“On what, exactly, Miss Ingellvar?” he asked, his tone filled with an air of intrigue, as though he genuinely wanted to understand her perspective.

“I guess you’ll have to find out. Goodnight, professor.”

---

Rook had drifted off after getting herself off a second time. This time there were no interruptions as she peaked, gripping her bed sheets as she moaned quietly as her window remained open. The thought of Emmrich between her legs, praising her and whispering in her ear as she got close. The way he announced his words and the graceful, precise movements of his hands. It didn’t take her long.

The alarm on her phone rang out, and she hit the snooze button, falling back to sleep. When her alarm sounded next, she jumped from her bed and dashed into the bathroom, leaving her morning workout. Today, she was too tired for that. After drying and styling her hair, she returned to her bedroom and quickly put on some makeup. But this time, she opted for a heavier black lining under her eyes.

EMMRICH: Morning. It occurs to me I didn’t offer you food when we finished work. Working until such a late hour, I would have gladly bought you something to take home or had it delivered. Did you make something to eat for yourself?

ROOK : Good morning, Professor Volkarin. I had nothing to eat when I got home; it was too late to go food shopping as my fridge was empty. Thank you for your delayed concern. (laughing emoji) I also slept later than intended, so please excuse my lack of communication this morning.

Rook sifted through the sea of black lace in her drawer, the soft fabric cool against her fingertips. She selected a set she knew by heart: a black thong with intricate embroidery and a lightly padded bra that shaped and lifted her heavy cleavage. Once they were on, she proceeded to her wardrobe, where she looked through her workwear. They hung the same dress she had on yesterday, but in a smaller size. The dress she wore the previous day hung off her, but she cinched it in with the belt she wore. She bit her lip and pulled out the dress. This one was shorter, with a daring and almost reckless hem. She held it up, the fabric whispering through her fingers. A thrill sparked low in her belly at the thought of how it might look and how it might feel.

Technically, it was a work attire. This would give Johanna something to complain about. Yet if she wore black tight stockings with it. Surely there wouldn’t be any harm…

Rook returned to her underwear drawer and pulled out both a set of stockings and a pair of tights. She deliberated at first, but a wicked smile creased her face as she pulled on the stockings. Lace-topped. Elegant, suggestive, a secret she could carry through the day.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, she rolled them up her legs slowly and deliberately. She admired the way they framed her skin, how they hinted at everything hidden. When she slipped into her favourite heels, she felt taller and more confident, as if the woman in the mirror could have anything she wanted.

Phone in hand, she glanced at Emmrich’s last message—a simple, innocent question about breakfast—and felt a smile curve her lips. Without thinking, she opened the camera and captured herself in the mirror, finding the angle that conveyed her mood: playful, confident, edged with something unspoken. “Would you like this for breakfast?” she typed, the words humming with double meaning.

Her thumb hovered over the “send” button.

The ring of an incoming call shattered the spell. “Hey,” she answered, bright and controlled.

“Morning, kid. I wanted to ask a favour for tomorrow…”

By the time the call ended, the heat of the moment had cooled. She reached for the dress again, but as her gaze dropped to the lace at her thighs, hesitation bloomed. The stockings that moments ago felt like a secret strength now seemed out of step with the day ahead—too much, too risky. It had been a gesture meant for him, not for the world.

With a quiet sigh, she peeled them off, folding them with care and setting them back in the drawer, like the thought that had inspired them.

The photo on her screen remained unsent, a private indulgence suspended in time.

Outside, the morning air was crisp, brushing cool against her bare legs. Each click of her heels on the pavement sounded sharper than usual, like punctuation marks to thoughts she couldn’t quite silence. The image she’d taken of herself flickered in her mind: that playful tilt of her head, the confidence in her eyes, the promise threaded into the curve of her lips.

She’d meant it.

She still meant it.

But the moment had passed, and in its place came the mask she wore so well: poised, polished, professional. She moved through the streets, her stride purposeful and her expression unreadable. Yet beneath the surface, the unsent photo lingered like a secret against her skin—a reminder of the idea of who she had fantasised about, twice, earlier that morning.

While walking, Rook wondered if he’d have wanted to see it.

-----

Arriving at the building, she saw the lights were off, realising she was the first to arrive. Finding her keys, she went inside, checking the control panel and alarm system to make sure everything was secure and there had been no break-in with the swift movements of scanning her pass and inputting her security number, a wall-mounted phone responded by relaying a series of digits, a process automated to verify her identity. After a double beep, the panel flashed, giving the all-clear. She headed to her office, adjusting the air conditioning to freshen the room, and left the door open as she got settled. As the door to the second floor swung open, someone steadily approached her with measured footsteps. Expectantly, she waited, and Emmrich’s face came into view. He was holding a tray with two cups and two tubs of fresh mixed fruit.

“As you didn’t reply, I took a wild guess,” he said in a flirtatious tone, setting down the cups and tubs on her desk with a soft thud. One tub brimmed with a vibrant mix of colourful, succulent fruits—glossy strawberries, plump blueberries, and bright pineapple chunks. The other tub held a different, perhaps initially less appealing, medley. “You can choose whichever you prefer, and I’ll take the one you don’t want,” he added with a hint of mischievous charm.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she looked at the offerings, the suspense of the pending day easing slightly.

“Or,” she suggested with a spark of enthusiasm, “we could head to the break room instead, and I can divide both tubs into two bowls so we can share more evenly.”

He raised an eyebrow and smirked at her suggestion, clearly amused. “Can’t decide which one you want?”

She shook her head slightly, a cheerful glint in her eyes. “No, it’s just that the pineapple looks exceptionally juicy in this one, and raspberries are my absolute favourite.” The way she gazed at the fruit reflected a sense of delight, making the moment feel warm and lighthearted.

Rising to her feet, she collected the fruit; meanwhile, he grabbed the drinks and signalled for her to proceed, showing that she should lead the way. 

While she was walking past, he reached out to take her arm, his hand moving lower to her hand, his thumb gently caressing her skin in a slow, tender movement. 

“I am truly sorry about my false allegations.” 

His gaze darted between her lips and eyes.

“You got me some caffeine. I forgive you. Follow me, and I’ll share my story about Uncle Varric.”

---

After settling into their seats at the large, polished table, where the surface gleamed under the soft overhead lights, they chatted. A quiet creak announced the unexpected opening of the break room door.

“Morning,” Neve greeted them both. “So, you returned home last night, Rook?”

“I stayed the night. “I slept under my desk,” she said sarcastically. “It was the most wonderful sleep of my life!”

Neve smiled, amused by her friend’s sarcasm. 

“Someone didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Can you tell?”

Her friend regarded her. “You don’t look it, but it’s there in your eyes. Your eyes look unusually glassy, suggesting you’re tired, upset, or overthinking things.”

“I was actually just about to bore Emmrich with my traumatic childhood. I aimed to clarify the nature of my close relationship with Varric.”

Emmrich raised a brow as he idly fidgeted with the lid of his drink.

“Have the others been gossiping?” Neve asked.

“I’m not sure, but I wanted to clear up any workplace nonsense.” Rook stretched, crossing her legs under the table, apologising as she tapped his leg. With a dismissive wave, he extended a leg towards the foot that had tapped her, leaning against it; then, taking a long drink, he watched her intently, waiting for any reaction.

Then it came in the form of her biting her lip and looking up at him through her dark eyelashes.

Neve, for once, remained oblivious.

“Spare him; give him the short version.” Neve had made a cup of coffee and was about to leave. As she moved behind Emmrich, she winked at Rook.

“Goodbye, Neve,” Rook said sharply, and her friend suppressed a giggle.

“See you later, you two.”

As the break room door shut, Rook looked back at Emmrich, who was still staring at her. With a pointed look at Emmrich, Rook popped a raspberry in her mouth, sucking the juice off her finger. With a slight flaring of his nostrils, he inhaled, his throat bobbing.

“So, the short version: Varric is my mother’s twin brother. My mother gave me up when I was less than a year old. Varric fought for me until I was four, trying to take me out of the system. He has looked after me ever since.” She ate another piece of fruit as if she hadn’t shared an intimate, detailed moment from her upbringing.

“We have something in common. My parents died when I was a young boy, in the collapse of a burning building. I moved from one family to another until I was ten, when a wonderful family took me in. They also cared for Myrna and Vorgoth. Upon achieving financial stability and establishing a business, extending an offer of lifelong employment to them seemed a natural progression.”

Rook’s heart skipped a beat. “It’s sweet that you took the time to go back for them,” she remarked, her voice tinged with admiration.

A thoughtful expression settled on his face as he gazed into the distance, letting out a sigh. “I often reflect upon my parents’ likely perspective on the life I have established. I ponder what dreams they held for me and what they would truly want me to become.” He fell silent, lost in thought, as if the weight of his reflection pressed heavily upon him.

“Never lonely,” she interjected playfully, her lips curving into a smirk as she popped another vibrant piece of fruit into her mouth, its juices glistening in the soft light.

His curious gaze shifted back to her. “And how do you perceive me?” He posed the question, his voice calm and steady on the surface, but betraying a deep-seated vulnerability beneath its controlled exterior.

“Does it really matter?” She responded with a light tone, but her words danced around the subject with a certain evasiveness.

He considered her response for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he observed her with a mixture of intrigue and seriousness. As she finished the last morsel from her bowl, he rose to his feet, swilling the bowls in the sink before placing them into the dishwasher. The rhythmic clink of porcelain punctuates his thoughts.

“It matters how my staff perceives me, especially those I plan to collaborate with closely.” His tone shifted, growing earnest as he turned to face her, his eyes locked onto hers with a sincerity that made her pulse quicken.

Having pulled the chair back beside her, he slid into it without a second thought, unconcerned about his knee accidentally brushing against her thigh.

“You’ll have to be patient. My new CEO hasn’t quite decided whether I’m good enough to stay.” Her voice held a teasing note, but there was a seriousness lurking beneath it.

“It is possible that he has already reached a conclusion, but is deliberately concealing it,” he posited, observing her with keen attention. A slight shift in her posture, coupled with an avoidance of his penetrating stare, indicated her uncertainty.

With a gentle touch, he lifted her chin, their eyes meeting. “Your eyes—they’re incredible. “I have never observed such unique colouring,” he stated, his voice softening to a hushed tone.

Rook felt a rush of warmth flooding her cheeks as Emmrich ran his thumb softly over one side of her face, the touch sending butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Leaning into his caress, a contented sigh escaped her lips as his thumb pad brushed over her lower lip. The sound of the door opening and talk from the hallway outside had her jumping up from the chair.

“I’d better go. I can’t afford to add tardiness to my naughty list.”

---

A glance at the time told Rook her interview with Emmrich was due in fifteen minutes. The notification on her laptop popped up. She grabbed her bag, eating a mint and spraying herself with deodorant, and then applying one squirt of her perfume, which smelled like caramel and pistachios—checked her makeup and reflection in her compact mirror.

A message popped up on her screen from Emmrich.

“Are you ready?”

Rook’s violet-brown eyes flicked over the message as she sat at her desk, the soft glow of her computer screen illuminating her features. A smile crept onto her face as she typed back, “Always for you,” before hitting the send button.

“I will come get you.”

Rook gathered her things—water bottle, laptop, and notebook—when a knock echoed through her office. The door creaked open, and Emmrich stepped inside, holding a small brass key that gleamed in the light.

“I have the key to my office,” he announced, his voice low and inviting. “I thought you might like to be with me when I see it for the first time. You can tell me how it looks.”

Rook raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to bring anything special?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

“You won’t need any of that,” he gestured dismissively towards the cluttered collection of items in her hands. His gaze lingered on her, a playful glint in his deep-set eyes, a silent amusement passing between them. “Just your brilliant self, Miss Ingellvar,” Emmrich replied, his smile warm and captivating, sending a flutter through her chest.

She dramatically rolled her eyes, but a grin betrayed her mock exasperation. “Professor Volkarin, lead on,” she teased, the title a playful lilt on her tongue. The way his jaw clenched at that name was too much for her to ignore. Though she had referred to him by that name over the phone and via messages, witnessing his reaction in person intensified her longing for him.

As they stepped out of her office, she followed closely behind him up to the top floor, their footsteps echoing softly in the long corridor bathed in natural light. As they walked, the atmosphere shifted, charged with a mix of anticipation and unacknowledged tension.

Arriving at the door to his new office, he inserted the key and twisted it before pocketing the small piece of metal again. He swiped his pass card with ease, and the lock clicked open. He took a deep breath before pushing the heavy door open, revealing the space beyond.

Rook followed him inside, and her eyes widened at the transformation. Gone were all remains of Solas’ decoration of nature and ruin and trees, ancient elves; instead, the room was a blank canvas. A sleek new desk stood against one wall, accompanied by a plush, inviting rug that anchored the space. The artist repainted the walls, replacing the previous blue with a beautiful picture of black, gold and green and hints of lilac, complementing the warm light from the large window overlooking the bustling city below.

“Well, well,” Rook teased, her voice lilting with spirited satire. “How the other half works.”

Emmrich chuckled smoothly as he moved to plug in and set up his laptop. As he did, he raised an eyebrow at her, attempting to maintain his professional demeanour. However, it was becoming increasingly complex—the effect she had on him intensified with every moment they spent together. He fought to remain calm, sensing the barely contained tension Rook’s presence created.

“Please be seated.” He gestured to the seat directly opposite him, a large plush armchair.

After a brief moment of hesitation, she gracefully settled into it, crossing her legs to compose herself. A slight nervousness fluttered in her stomach as she awaited his cues, her eyes fixed on him, ready for the conversation to unfold.

“I am pleased to inform you that you are my final interviewee,” he stated, a subtle smile gracing his lips.

“What makes you think I’d be happy?” she countered, her brow arched in curiosity. 

“It indicates progress toward the completion of this procedure,” he stated, while opening her file; the sound of turning pages filled the intervening silence.

“Have you been saving the best ‘til last?” she teased lightly, intrigued by the way he folded his hands.

“You would have to tell me that, Miss Ingellvar,” he said, meeting her gaze with an intensity that suggested he was assessing more than just her qualifications.

“Well, you’re the one with my file, Professor Volkarin. Only you can determine my worth.” 

The same signs appeared once more, a subtle but distinct tensing in his jaw and a deepening darkness settling over his eyes, revealing a return of his internal conflict. The atmosphere in the room shifted slightly, charged with the weight of their exchange as they both considered the implications of her words.

“Varric speaks highly of you, and now I can clearly understand why,” Emmrich said, his eyes reflecting genuine admiration. “It just so happens that nearly ninety per cent of the interviews conducted so far revealed that the other members of the team find your skills and knowledge to be impressive.” He paused momentarily, observing the way she inhaled, her chest rising and falling slowly. She shifted uneasily in her chair, clearly surprised by the unexpected praise. “Are you not a fan of receiving compliments?” he inquired, noticing the flush creeping up her cheeks.

Rook could feel the heat spreading to her ears, a sure sign that she was experiencing a mix of embarrassment and flattery.

“No,” she admitted, her voice slightly hesitant as she adjusted the hem of her dress.

Emmrich, sensing her discomfort, stood up and moved toward a small refreshment area to prepare a glass of iced tea for them both. As he turned and crossed the space between them, Rook noticed how tall Emmrich seemed in the quiet room—how the soft light caught his hair, and how his presence filled the space.

As he handed her a glass, their fingers brushed. Just a fleeting, accidental contact. It was nothing. And yet it was everything.

The warmth of that touch lingered, humming along her skin, as if her nerves had come alive all at once. Rook inhaled slowly, willing her heart to steady, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her.

Emmrich’s gaze dropped to her hand for the briefest second, and when he looked back at her, his expression had shifted — the effortless charm was still there, but beneath it, something deeper stirred. Something unspoken.

Leaning back on the desk in front of her, he narrowed his gaze, his expression shifting from friendly to intense. “If you were under my supervision,” he began, his voice lower now, quieter, as if confiding a secret, “I would make it a point to remind you at every opportunity just how exceptional you are.” His words hung in the air, charged with a subtle promise. Now he was standing closer, the space between them shrinking; she was sure he could hear her heart hammering in her rib cage.

Feeling her throat tighten and dry up, Rook swallowed with effort, the dryness a stark and unexpected sensation. Initially, her natural reaction was to deflect his words with teasing remarks playfully; however, she paused, her intended actions momentarily suspended by the genuine honesty reflected in his gaze. “That’s a shame you’re not my direct line manager.”

“Not yet,” he whispered.

His tone, neither joking nor entirely serious, sent a shiver down her spine. For a single suspended heartbeat, they remained motionless. Neither spoke. The silence between them crackled with unspoken words.

As if suddenly aware they’d overstepped an unspoken boundary, Emmrich straightened, shattering the moment. He sipped from his glass, letting the sounds of the city drift in through the open window.

“Tell me, Rook, are you happy here?”

With that simple question, the tone of their conversation shifted. Rook bowed her head and focused on the ice in her glass.

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied, taking a deep breath. “It depends on what the future dynamic will be for the business.”

He leaned his head, lips pursed, waiting to hear what she’d say next. Hooked and ready to listen, but her words didn’t come.

“Would you care to explain further?” he asked, settling back in his chair as the atmosphere turned frigid.

“Not without sounding dramatic. Theatrics aren’t my forte.”

He reacted to her sarcasm with a snort. “I invite you to challenge me. I can handle it.”

“You think you can handle me?” Rook raised an eyebrow, and he smiled back at her.

“I believe I could, my dear girl.” He sipped from his glass, his eyes never leaving her face. “Now, stop leaving me in suspense.”

“My continued employment here depends on management and Johanna’s continued presence.”

“I see,” he said, putting down his glass and tapping his fingers on the desk. He stood and went to the window. His arms were clasped behind his back. “That wasn’t so hard. Would it comfort you to know that you are not the only one who has expressed this?”

“The matter remains: if you feel she is worthy enough to be here and she gets the job done.” Rook shrugged her shoulders. “Ones such as me and the lower-paid staff don’t matter. We are just numbers.”

He turned at that, surprised. Her words, laced with vulnerability but containing an undercurrent of defiance, caught his attention.

“Ones such as you?” He repeated the words, disbelieving what he was hearing. “I will repeat what I said to you in the early hours this morning. Do you really think so little of yourself?”

By this point, he had crossed to her in several enormous strides. Crouching beside her chair so they were eye level. “My dear girl,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder and shaking his head slowly as he watched her, “you are a rare jewel. This industry has hidden you in filth and muck. You deserve to be placed on a pedestal, should your new CEO decide to keep you.” A lopsided smile touched his lips, his eyes warm, yet hinting at something she couldn’t understand.

---

The meeting had ended when Emmrich’s phone rang.

The first time, he ignored it. The second time, he sent it straight to voicemail. When the third call came, he sighed and apologised.

Rook had made her way to the break room to make a cup of coffee before heading downstairs. As she pushed open the door, the room fell silent. Sitting at the table were Johanna, Zara, and a few of Johanna’s favourites. Rook glanced at the women, noticing Johanna’s sour expression as they all turned to look at her.

Deciding that the caffeine could wait, she retreated and left the break room, her anger simmering. As the door closed, she heard Johanna muttering something to the others, followed by an eruption of laughter.

Taking a deep breath, Rook headed toward the stairwell when the door to her right opened, and Emmrich walked out on his phone, nearly colliding with her. They spun to avoid each other; he mouthed, “I’m sorry,” and Rook held up her hand to signal it was okay. However, his expression shifted when he saw the annoyance in her eyes, and he followed her. She shook her head and walked backwards, making her way down to the main floor.

“Well, you’re alive then?” Neve chuckled as Rook joined her. “How did it go?”

Rook shrugged. “Alright. We got interrupted—no, Neve, not like that!” Rook swatted her friend’s arm. “His phone kept ringing, and he needed to take it.”

The front door suddenly caught their attention. The door flew open, revealing a delivery driver in green overalls carrying a bouquet of red roses. The flowers being brought in also caught Emmrich’s attention as he emerged from the stairwell. He remained glued to his phone.

Rook’s stomach did a flip and then lurched to the floor as dread wormed its way through her chest.

“You have to be kidding?” Neve muttered as the man approached the front desk where the friends stood.

“I’m looking for Rook,” he said.

Rook nodded and held out her hands to take the flowers, trying to suppress a shiver of unease as she accepted them. The delivery man signed to show that the delivery was complete. “You’re a lucky lady. These cost a fortune.” His smile was meant to be sincere, but it only added to Rook’s discomfort.

Neve thanked him, and he left. Rook shook her head and placed the flowers on the table, rubbing a hand over her face.

———

Emmrich’s heart was in his throat as he nearly clashed with Rook on the top floor. He mouthed his apology, his eyes earnest as he watched her. He had seen the look in her eyes. The frustration on her face as she left the hallway and headed down the stairs. Over the phone call, he heard the undeniable cackle from Johanna in the break room. He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he headed down the main stairwell, trying to end the call he was on.

As the delivery man approached Rook and Neve, astonishment rooted Emmrich to the spot, his jaw slack. Red roses in full bloom dominated the oversized bouquet, which also included a large card. As soon as he finished his call, he went to where they were. In one fluid motion, Neve snatched the card, her eyes quickly scanning the information before she handed it over to Rook. As Rook read the card, a look of revulsion washed over her as she shook her head slowly. Emmrich, noticing her apparent nervousness, also felt the jealous feelings churning within himself.

“A secret admirer?” He asked, the words tumbling forth before he could compose his resentment.

Rook’s eyes were a cold enigma, their depth obscured behind a façade that resembled a set of shutters drawn tight, shielding her emotions from view.

“They’re just from someone insignificant,” she replied, her voice steady yet lacking warmth. With deliberate slowness, she crumpled the card in her hands, the paper crunching harshly as she tore it into pieces and let the remnants fall into the small metal bin nearby with a soft thud. “Neve, could you please arrange for someone to dispose of these?” she continued, her tone clipped. “I’m going to take my lunch.”

In that fleeting moment, Emmrich’s heart sank as he grasped the reality behind her words. It dawned on him that she wanted to be alone.

Chapter Text

Day Three, Part Two

Rook dropped her empty coffee cup into the bin as she re-entered the building. The wind had picked up outside, sharp and biting against her cheeks, as if it knew she was unravelling. She couldn’t bring herself to eat after receiving the flowers; the nausea was still too intense.

A caffeine-fueled silence was what she needed, a moment of peace to escape the noise inside her mind and restore her focus. Her words were meant to be direct; she wasn’t lying when she said she wanted to be alone. Although she tried not to, she considered that if Emmrich had followed her, she would have gladly accepted his company.

Taash and Harding were now operating the greeting desk, ready to welcome customers. There was no sign of the flowers, and Rook sighed heavily, knowing she could count on Neve—not just to dispose of them, but because they had vanished completely, as if the delivery had never come. But in her mind, she knew. The persistent, sickly sweet smell of the perfume they’d been sprayed with filled her nose.

Returning to her office, she was immediately hit by a blast of intensely cold air conditioning, a sensation she adored. She sat down at her desk, and a brush of her fingers across the trackpad woke the screen, revealing a flashing notification in her inbox: a new message.

Subject: URGENT: Report Feedback–Immediate Attention Required  

From: Johanna Hezenkoss  

Sent: 11:48 AM  

Rook blinked. Her calendar, open in a second tab, displayed her busy morning schedule in bright blocks. Emmrich’s meeting was scheduled from 11:30 to 12:30; her lunch hour was blocked off afterwards, taking her to the present time. 13:28.

With a loud creak of her chair, she leaned closer, her heart beginning to beat faster as she wondered what fresh hell Johanna had sent her.

Miss Ingellvar,  

I am still awaiting the delivery of your report that I requested regarding the Quarterly Financial Review. I sent you an email on Tuesday at 9:02 AM. Please ensure you deliver this to me or Professor Volkarin before the agreed deadline.  

I have copied in Professor Volkarin so that he is aware of the delay in your findings.  

Regards,  

Johanna Hezenkoss  

Rook stared at the screen, brow creased.

“What the fuck?” she muttered, her voice barely audible, but then her disbelief swelled, prompting her to exclaim, “What the actual fuck?” The confusion coursing through Rook caused her skin to prickle. This was the first time she had received anything from Johanna concerning said ‘report.’

A wave of panic washed over her as she frantically scrolled through her inbox; her eyes were stinging and blurry from the strain as she desperately searched for that email. With painstaking care, she searched her deleted and archived files, the silence of the empty folders echoing her growing bewilderment.

11:48? She stopped her search.

The email was sent as she sat across from Emmrich—discussing her future at the company, no less, and blatant flirting—while Johanna was typing up this ridiculous piece of bureaucratic nonsense and deliberately cc’ing the CEO.

Rook closed the laptop more forcefully than she had intended. With her cheeks flushed, she stormed out of her room and headed across the hall to find Varric.

11:48.

The timestamp seared itself into her mind, lingering like an unwelcome flame behind her eyes. Johanna had made a move to undermine her, to throw her under the bus, and Rook was determined not to let that go unchallenged. Not this time.

With a swift and purposeful knock, she rapped on the door of Varric’s office. Without waiting for an invitation, she pushed open the door with a decisive force, stepping into the room with a sense of urgency. Neve sat comfortably beside Varric, her brows furrowing in concern as she registered the storm brewing on Rook’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Neve asked, her voice filled with genuine worry. “You look like someone just fleeced you for your lunch money.”

Varric let out a resigned sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching with the knowledge of what was coming. He could already sense the tempest brewing within Rook—he had seen this before.

“Johanna just sent me a last-minute ‘urgent’ task during my meeting this morning!” Rook’s voice was a mixture of disbelief and fury, her fists clenched at her sides. “She knew I was with Emmrich!”

Neve raised an eyebrow, a sly smirk creeping onto her lips as she considered Rook’s frustration. “By the way, how was that?”

“Not now, Neve!” Rook snapped, her patience wearing thin. She turned her laptop screen toward Varric with a dramatic flourish, her finger jabbing emphatically at the timestamp of an email sent at precisely 11:48. “Look at this! I was already in his office, engaged in our discussion. I didn’t even notice the email until after lunch, and for crying out loud, my calendar is set to public!”

The room crackled with tension, Rook’s outrage a palpable symbol of the political undercurrents that lurked in the corporate world.

“So predictable of Johanna. She sets you up for failure and then claims you’re the reason for her career setbacks. So much for her giving you some space,” Varric grumbled, shaking his head.

Rook sat down opposite him. “The deadline for this was 1:30 PM! This is absurd!” With her eyes fixed on the screen, she typed flawlessly, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. “I’m not taking the blame for this. I’ve already checked my inbox, junk folder, and deleted files...”

“Hang on now, kid. There is no need to worry or feel stressed about this. See Davrin. By checking the audit logs, he can determine if and when Johanna sent the initial email. Be discreet,” Varric advised. “I’ll message him and let him know you’re on your way and need the info urgently. While you’re at it, I’ll call Emmrich and explain the situation.”

Releasing some of the building tension, she shook her head and let out a sharp breath. She took the signed request from Varric and went to see Davrin.

“Hey Rook! What can I do for you?” Davrin greeted her.

Rook showed him the paper. “I need this processed.”

“Ha, nice. Anything to get that miserable witch in trouble,” he said. “Take a seat; I won’t be long.”

While Davrin worked, they chatted; he finished printing and signing a document in just fifteen minutes. “Deliver this to Varric. I promise you it’ll have everything he needs. Keep me posted,” Davrin smiled.

Varric was alone in his room when Rook turned. “So, I’ve spoken with the big boss. He’d like to see you. Take your laptop and that document. He’s waiting,” he said.

With a determined set to her jaw, she ascended the two floors to Emmrich’s office, each step a measured beat against the quiet hallway.

By the time Rook reached the top floor, her stomach was a tight knot of nerves and pent-up energy, a feeling she could almost taste. Her hands were stiff from gripping the papers and laptop too tightly.

The sound of her knuckles against Emmrich’s office door echoed in the quiet hallway. Sharp. Controlled.

“Come in,” his voice replied, smooth as warm honey, yet laced with a prudent undercurrent.

As she stepped inside the room, the atmosphere shifted subtly. Emmrich lifted his gaze from the glow of his screen, momentarily breaking his focus. His attire was a testament to scrupulousness—his tie perfectly knotted and his shirt pristine, each detail enhancing the air of professionalism that surrounded him. The sunlight streaming through the blinds behind him painted the desk with long, golden stripes, creating a striking contrast against the sleek surface.

“Ah, Rook. Varric said you were on your way up to see me.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes falling on the document in her hand. With a nervous swallow, she crossed the room, acutely aware of his intense gaze burning into her, and offered him the report.

As he stood and took the document, his fingers brushed hers, a fleeting moment of contact during the transfer. Initially, he didn’t speak; he examined the information and then looked back at her.

“I was unaware,” he said slowly, “that this task had been assigned to you. I specifically asked Johanna to handle this matter and to have it on my desk by 13.30 today.” Something in his expression shifted—not surprise, but understanding. He nodded once and set the document down with deliberate care. “Thank you, my dear, for bringing this to my attention.”

Rook hesitated; her fingers clamped tightly around her laptop, which she held pressed to her chest.

“I know how it looks,” she said quietly, “but I didn’t receive prior notice of the request. If I had, the document would have been completed and on your desk first thing this morning.”

Emmrich remained silent, his expression transforming as a keen intensity replaced any trace of indifference. His eyes narrowed, not settling on her, but drifting beyond her presence, as if he were mentally sifting through the events of the day, piecing together fragments of information like a detective reconstructing a complex puzzle.

Lost in thought, he remarked, “You were in my office at that time.”

Rook let out a scant breath. “I just didn’t want you to think I’m sloppy.”

A quick movement of his eyes, almost imperceptible, found and locked with hers.

“I do not,” he declared truthfully. “This assignment wasn’t given to you. I explicitly requested that Johanna address this issue.”

Rook’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. She wasn’t used to being believed without having to plead for it.

“If you’re being targeted, I want to know,” he continued, stepping closer. “This kind of behaviour is intolerable—from anyone.”

She looked away, not because she didn’t want to meet his gaze, but because if she held it too long, she might break—anger simmering. “I can get the report done. Please send me the statistics and figures, and I’ll provide you with an update within the hour.”

“Thank you,” he said tenderly, “for your kind offer. But this is Johanna’s doing, and she will be the one to deal with it.” He turned to sit back at his desk, steepling his fingers. “One thing you should know: I deducted a full day from a deadline. This allows for the correction of errors.” He eyed her. “If this ever happens again… come to me immediately. I mean it.” His face was stern, but there was a genuine warmth in his hazel eyes.

Rook swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words lodged in her throat like an obstacle that was both dangerous and difficult to articulate. She glanced down for a moment, gathering her thoughts before finally responding. “Yes, sir.”

Emmrich leaned in slightly, an inquisitive glint in his eyes. “Before you leave, I have a question for you.”

Rook nodded, eager to hear what he had to say. “Of course,” she replied, attempting to keep her tone professional yet open.

He paused, as if weighing his words carefully. “A report such as this—how long would it take you to complete it if you were the one undertaking the task?”

“An hour should be enough,” she replied thoughtfully. “Of course, that’s assuming the information is readily available and doesn’t require extensive digging.” Rook felt a flicker of confidence as she spoke, hoping to convey her capabilities.

“Come and look at this.”

Emmrich clicked his mouse repeatedly, locating the project’s documents and spreadsheets.

Rook leaned against the desk beside him, hands spread wide. He noticed the matte black nail polish on her delicate fingers. Leaning on the desk, she read silently, her posture shifting slightly and lips moving as she followed along. Taking the mouse from him, she scrolled down the page. He leaned back, his gaze lingering on her form; her long legs in those heels were a captivating sight. Before, his hazel eyes ogled her curve of her ass.

“I could get this finished within the hour.” Her sultry voice caused him to snap out of his trance. “No fancy bells or whistles, but it would serve the purpose for what is required.”

“Your laptop is in your possession. Would you prepare a draft now?”

“Anything for you, boss,” she flashed him a smile and rounded his desk, pulling the chair opposite him closer so she could work.

“Splendid, darling. I’ve sent you the information. Ask me if anything needs clarification.”

Thirty-five minutes later.

The only sound between them was the quiet clatter of keys. She sat opposite him, head down, focused — her brow furrowed in concentration, the curve of her lips parted ever so slightly as she read from the screen. Emmrich tried to focus. Truly he did, but the sight of her sitting at his desk — his desk — legs crossed, the way the dress hugged against her form, the faint trace of perfume threading through the air, it undid him.

Now and then, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, unaware of the effect she had. The glow of the desk lamp lit the line of her throat, the dip of her collarbone just barely visible. He shifted in his seat, jaw tight, trying to ignore the stiff ache growing between his legs.

His fingers hovered over the keys, unmoving. She was close — too close — and yet maddeningly out of reach. Her presence was a constant hum beneath his skin, and more than once, he had to stop, breathe, remind himself that this was still work, that there were walls between them, even if all he wanted was to drag her around the desk and press her flat across it.

Her voice broke his trail of thought — one where he had her spread out across his desk, wrists pinned, blouse undone, her breath catching on his name.

“Something wrong?” she asked, not looking up, but he could hear the amusement threading through her tone, like she knew exactly where his mind had wandered.

Emmrich cleared his throat, sharp and low. “No,” he said, a little too quickly. “Just… distracted.”

“Mm,” she murmured, still typing. “By the quarterly forecast?”

That earned her a glance. She wasn’t smiling — not fully — but there was a curve at the edge of her mouth that suggested she was toying with him. Testing how far she could push. Her eyes flicked up briefly, catching his, and the look she gave him wasn’t innocent in the slightest.

He looked away first.

His jaw tightened. He adjusted in his seat again, willing his body to behave, but it was no use. Everything about her — the scent of her skin, the way she sat like she belonged in his space, the lazy confidence in her voice — made it hard to remember why he was even trying to keep his distance in the first place.

“I’ve shared the document with you, Emmrich,” Rook said, her tone smooth, professional — almost. “Let me know what needs adjusting.”

Brows lifted, genuine surprise flickering across his face before it melted into something slower, warmer. “My dear,” he said, voice rich and edged with approval, “this is… rather impressive.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes not leaving her. “Fortunate, really, that I had the chance to see this before finalising decisions about who stays on my team.” His gaze lingered — appreciative, assessing. A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I believe it would be in my best interest to keep you close.”

Rook stayed firm. “Do you need me for anything else?”

He tilted his head, the amusement in his expression sharpening with something more deliberate. “Perhaps you ought to stay for a moment.”

It earned him a raised brow.

“I have Johanna on her way up.”

“What?” she breathed, her voice filled with disbelief. “Why? Why would you think I would want to be anywhere near her?” Rook sounded incredulous, and she felt the same way. She couldn’t understand why he was putting her in this situation. Her stomach dropped, and instantly, she felt as though someone had squeezed all the air from her lungs.

“Darling…” Emmrich studied her face; this wasn’t the reaction he expected from her. “I would not have undertaken this action had I thought about your inability to manage it.”

A moment passed between them, heavy, pressing.

“I want to show her how it’s done.” He regarded her again, his eyes darkening. “The behaviour she displayed is not to be tolerated. I want the truth in the room.”

That last line made her sit up straighter. Truth in the room—no smoke, no side comments, just facts. Him. Her. Johanna.

“I don’t expect you to speak,” he said, his tone low and even. “It would be best if you remained quiet. Yet, I insist you listen to what’s being said.” By this point, Emmrich had leaned forward in his chair, his hands gesturing as he spoke. “You have a remarkable work ethic. I will not tolerate another mockery of you.”

Rook nodded once. She felt the electric buzz of tension building beneath her skin, but Emmrich’s gaze grounded her: calm, measured, in control.

A knock at the door.

“Come,” Emmrich called, settling deeper into his seat with a shift that amplified his already imposing presence.

Johanna entered with her usual clipped steps, immaculate in posture and suit—but Rook saw it: the flicker of surprise in her eyes when she saw Rook already seated.

“Emmrich,” Johanna greeted, her lips pressed into a thin, almost invisible line. “You wanted to see me?”

“I did,” he said smoothly, a confident glint in his eyes as he gestured towards the chair beside Rook. “Please, sit.”

She did, slowly, her eyes sliding to Rook again, confused and slightly wary.

“I assumed you wanted to speak privately.” Johanna’s voice was icy.

Emmrich folded his hands on the desk. “I’ve reviewed the email you sent earlier to Miss Ingellvar regarding the Quarterly Financial report,” he began. “It arrived at 11:48 AM—in the middle of my scheduled meeting with her, a meeting we both had confirmed on our calendars.”

Johanna’s facial expression remained unchanged, betraying no emotion. Yet a subtle twitch of her fingers betrayed a hint of inner turmoil as they fidgeted slightly on the armrest of her chair.

“I was surprised,” Emmrich stated, “to find you hadn’t completed the task I assigned on Monday.”

“The deadline wasn’t until today,” Johanna said.

“Then why did you send it so late in the day to get it started?” With a sharp movement, Emmrich picked up the file and slammed it onto the sturdy wooden desk.

Rook jumped at the action.

At first, Johanna stumbled over her words before correcting her answer. “I informed her of the deadline.”

He sneered, “I’m not disputing that,” rising to his feet and then perching on the edge of the desk next to Rook, silently conveying his decision to align himself with one side in the conflict.

“Well, I had intended to send it earlier—”

“According to your email, you state, and I quote, ‘I sent you an email on Tuesday at 9:02 AM.’” He shot a piercing glare at Johanna, and Rook felt an involuntary response ripple through her body as she placed her hand on her crossed knees. There was a tension in the air, and she subtly shifted, pressing her thighs together as if to steady herself. His voice, laced with intensity, resonated with an edge that made her feel small, but also made her wet.

He caught her slight movement from the corner of his eye, a flicker of awareness that made a muscle in his jaw tighten. His gaze skimmed over her for just a fleeting moment, never quite locking eyes with her, before he turned away to stare out the window.

I wonder if he’s hard? Rook bit her lip at the thought.

Emmrich continued to read from the document that Darvin had prepared. “There was no original email,” he stated, his voice heavy with implication. “Darvin has run an audit trail.” He allowed the significance of his words to hang for a moment before sharply pivoting to face Johanna, who had just interjected.

“Rook’s experienced. I expected she’d manage the task regardless—” Johanna’s voice held an undercurrent of defiance, as if she were trying to defend her choice.

In an instant, Emmrich’s demeanour shifted; the calm, measured quality of his voice evaporated, replaced by a sharp edge that cut through the atmosphere of the room. “I sent you this assignment. It was to be completed by you.”

“I assumed Rook could turn it around more efficiently,” Johanna replied, her tone defensive.

“Quit with the horseshit and the lies, Johanna.” The command was uncompromising, and an uneasy silence filled the space that followed.

Johanna’s jaw tensed, her expression a mixture of indignation and frustration as she processed his words.

Rook sat quietly, her hands neatly folded in her lap, heart racing. Every heartbeat felt amplified against the stillness, a dull roar in her ears.

“I don’t tolerate strategic incompetence,” Emmrich declared, his voice firm and unforgiving.

Johanna’s posture became rigid as she recoiled slightly from his words. “I didn’t realise this was a disciplinary matter,” she retorted, her bravado faltering slightly under his scrutiny.

Emmrich paused, contemplating how best to articulate his thoughts. He regarded Rook for a brief moment, as if weighing her presence in this conversation, before returning his gaze to Johanna. He rose from his chair, leaning forward slightly against the desk, which emphasised his authority.

“I expect collaboration, not passive-aggressive sabotage. I am disappointed, Johanna. Instead of rising to the occasion, you are providing me with ample evidence to justify your dismissal,” he stated, his voice laced with disappointment. “I had hoped you would seize this opportunity to showcase your skills and contribute meaningfully. Instead, you offloaded the work onto someone who lacks the authority and pay grade to handle such information. Miss Ingellvar has completed her assigned task admirably and with professionalism, despite the challenging circumstances she faced.”

Emmrich straightened his posture, placing his hands behind his back as he fixed Johanna with an unwavering stare. “From now on, you will assign work with clear timelines and in writing. No ambiguity. No games.”

A spark of indignation lit Johanna’s expression as she opened her mouth to protest. “If I may—”

“You may not,” he interjected smoothly, yet the steeliness in his tone tempered any further argument. “I warned you about your tone once this week. This makes it twice.”

Rook experienced an unfamiliar surge of relief. The stranglehold of unacknowledged tension loosened. No one had ever defended her so fiercely, especially not to her face.

“You may leave,” Emmrich stated emotionlessly.

Rook hesitated and went to grip the arms of the chair to stand, but a quick, sharp look from Emmrich had her staying put.

Johanna rose from her chair with a rigid posture, holding onto her pride. A heavy silence followed her departure, punctuated only by the forceful slam of the door.

When the echo died away, Rook slowly exhaled, realising she’d been holding her breath, and stared at the floor. Her voice was lower than she’d thought it would be. “You didn’t have to do that in front of me.”

“I know,” Emmrich replied. “However, your presence held importance to me.”

She looked up at him, her brows slightly pinched. “To humiliate her?”

“No,” he said, his tone even. “To remind her you’re not someone she can sabotage without consequence.”

Rook looked down again, her fingers twisting in her lap. Her voice was tight when she finally replied, “I’ve been fighting for a long time to be taken seriously by her.”

“I know you have.”

That stopped her. She met his eyes. “Do you?” she asked softly, uncertainty clear in her voice.

He knelt before her, resting a hand on each of the chair’s arms, caging her in. “I don’t know everything,” he said, “but I know what it looks like when someone is being undermined deliberately. I’ve seen it before, and I don’t let it stand in my company.”

That word—my company. It should have felt corporate, but instead, it felt like a boundary. A line drawn in the sand. An invitation to step inside, where it was safe.

She nodded slowly. Emmrich’s gaze softened.

“I read your report. It’s strong work, Rook. You should be proud.”

The praise caught her off guard. “I am,” she said quietly, “I just… I hate that it had to come to that. That she pushed me into looking unprofessional to play a power game.”

“I don’t think you looked unprofessional at all.”

She laughed once, dry and unconvincing. “You didn’t see me in the stairwell five minutes ago.”

Emmrich tilted his head, studying her. “Do you need a moment?”

The kindness in his question undid something in her. “I need a week,” she muttered, rubbing her hands over her face. “But I’ll take five minutes and a strong drink.”

He chuckled—a rare, low laugh she’d only heard when he was truly disarmed. “There’s bourbon in the cabinet.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

He stood, walked over to a low cabinet tucked under the bookcase, and opened it to reveal a sleek decanter and two heavy glasses. “Maker,” she whispered, amazed despite herself. “You actually are a dragon.”

He turned back, smiling faintly. “Only on special occasions.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And this counts?”

He poured two fingers into each glass. “You fought back today,” he said, handing her one. “That counts.”

Their fingers brushed again. This time, she didn’t pull away. They sipped the drink in quiet peace together.

“Better not tell my boss’s boss about this,” she winked, gesturing to the glass. “Drinking on company property…” and let out an exaggerated huff.

“Go finish the rest of your day. You have more pressing matters than keeping an old man company.”

***

The atmosphere had shifted. Rook felt it the moment she returned to the ground floor to check on the others. Several pairs of eyes watched her as she passed by, enough to make her skin prickle. Word had likely travelled fast; perhaps Johanna had spoken with Zara, who would eagerly spread office gossip. Or maybe Johanna was angry, and everyone knew how nightmarish she could be when scorned or confronted about her mistakes.

Then Rook spotted Johanna and Zara huddled together and muttering in the corner booth of the banking hall. Both women eyed her as she walked over to speak with Harding and Taash.

“Hey, Rook,” Harding chirped.

“You missed her outburst at Lucanis and Bellara,” Taash added, pretending to show Rook something on their screen. This was a regular habit of theirs, a way to chat without others noticing. To an outside observer, it would seem that they were discussing work. “Just a few more hours, and we’ll be heading out for karaoke—”

Footsteps. Familiar heels. Click, click, click.

Zara approached them while Johanna had vanished.

Her voice arrived before she did—syrupy and condescending. “Well, well. Look who returned from the Headmaster’s office still wearing her prefect badge.”

Rook didn’t look up. “Zara.”

Zara leaned a hip against the greeting desk, clutching a folder as if it were a prop in a stage play.

“I must say, it’s so impressive how quickly you’ve integrated with the new management,” she said, her tone dripping with sweetness.

Harding’s voice intervened, sharp yet smooth. “You jealous, Zara? You sound a little… tense.”

Zara whipped her gaze to the shorter woman. “Oh, sweetie. Why would I be jealous when I have all this charm and other assets?”

“Do us a favour, Zara. Fuck off and go pretend to do some work.” And still, Rook didn’t give Zara the satisfaction of looking at her.

Taash clapped a hand over their mouth to stifle a laugh, while Harding burst into a fit of giggles.

Meanwhile, Zara’s cheeks flushed red.

With that, Zara sauntered off, heels clicking like a metronome—precise and triumphant. Rook exhaled sharply through her nose, her hands clenching at her sides.

“You know she’s baiting you?” Harding said, adjusting her screen as a customer approached.

“She’s going to push me too far one day.”

“She wants you to react. Don’t give her the satisfaction,” Taash whispered.

Rook felt her phone vibrate in her pocket as she headed to the stairway leading to her room. Pulling her phone out, her jaw was tense. A new message pinged on FadeApp.

EMMRICH: Are you alright?

Her heart stuttered. She typed quickly.

ROOK: Yes. It’s fine. I think Zara wants to kill me and wear my skin, but I’m coping.

His response came faster than she expected.

EMMRICH: Should I be concerned? Or entertained?

She smirked despite herself.

ROOK: A little of both. (thinking emoji)

EMMRICH : I would never allow such harm to come your way, even if you instigated it.

ROOK: Protective professor?

EMMRICH: When it comes to those I care about—yes.

Something in her chest tightened. It was a strange comfort, dangerous yet welcome.

***

Emmrich POV

High above, from the topmost floor, Emmrich stood perfectly still before the split-screen monitor, his attention captivated by the images.

Twelve feeds. Each window was a silent, flickering glimpse of the world below.

He wasn’t supposed to watch, not like this.

Yet there she stood, camera seven trained on her, rigid by the reception desk, defiantly tilting her chin as Zara intruded into her space. Although the sound was off, he could see Zara’s hostility in her body language. She leaned on her hip with a smug air. The cutting smile. He’d encountered this corporate gloss before.

Rook didn’t move, but Emmrich saw it — the shift in her eyes, the flicker of relief that someone had her back. She wouldn’t let it show, but he knew. Knew how isolated she was. How much she shouldered without complaint.

He sipped his tea, eyes never leaving the screen.

The moment Zara walked off, he zoomed in slightly.

Rook stood rigid, breath visibly deeper. Her fingers flexed at her sides, and then she turned to her monitor. Emmrich waited for the faint glow of her phone. Watched as she lifted it.

A moment later, his screen lit up with her reply.

ROOK: Yes. It’s fine. I think Zara wants to kill me and wear my skin, but I’m coping.

His lips twitched as he typed a reply.

Even now, guarded, exhausted — she burned brighter than anyone else in the building.

The temptation to go down there was overwhelming. He could walk the halls, make his presence known. Scare Zara back into her corner with nothing but a glance.

But Rook wouldn’t want that.

Not now.

She didn’t need saving. She needed to be believed in.

His eyes trailed back to her frame on the screen. Rook had moved to the stairwell and was glancing at her phone, a small half-smile pulling at her lips when she thought no one could see.

He leaned closer to the monitor.

“You have no idea,” he murmured under his breath, “how extraordinary you are.”

***

As Rook stepped into her office, the tension bled from her shoulders. Neve was already waiting for her, two cups of coffee on the desk.

“Well,” Neve said, handing one over, “Word is Johanna just got a verbal spanking in fluent CEO. Something about shirking responsibilities and conveniently assigning a massive report with less than two hours’ notice.”

Rook rolled her eyes, sipping. “She knew I wouldn’t be at my desk. Emmrich called me into that meeting before she sent the file.”

“And somehow it became your fault, I’m sure.” Neve tilted her head, examining Rook. “You alright, though?”

A shrug. “I’m used to picking up the slack. But it’s getting harder to pretend like it doesn’t bother me.”

“Yeah, well... Emmrich tore her a new one. And not in the fun way.”

That pulled a laugh from Rook, short and genuine. “Thanks for this,” she said, lifting the coffee. “Really.”

Neve gave her a soft look. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone, y’know.”

“I’m fine. Just... drained.”

“Well, that’s perfect, because tonight’s karaoke, and I fully expect you to scream-sing something scandalous.”

Rook groaned.

“Also...” Neve hesitated for a dramatic flare, like testing the water before diving. “I may have extended the invite to Emmrich.”

Rook nearly choked. “You what?”

“And Myrna. And Vorgoth. But they both declined. Emmrich, on the other hand, seemed intrigued.”

Rook smirked despite herself, thoughts spiralling somewhere else entirely. “You really think he’ll come?”

“He didn’t say no.”

Rook bit back a grin. “This is either going to be brilliant... or an absolute disaster.”

Neve’s grin widened. “Either way, I’m bringing popcorn.”

***

The ticking of the clock seemed louder than usual. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Rook sat hunched over her desk, surrounded by scattered pages of audit notes and digital files that bled together in a blurry, overwhelming mess. She didn’t notice the message at first; it popped up silently, only drawing her attention when the screen blinked softly and the notification settled into the corner, a small, insistent square of light.

EMMRICH: Miss Ingellvar. May I ask how you’re faring after this afternoon’s… chaos?

She blinked, lips parting slightly. The cursor blinked. Her hands hesitated over the keyboard. Then she replied.

ROOK: Surviving. Just me, an audit from hell, and a packet of breath mints I found in the back of my drawer. Glamorous, no?

EMMRICH: I’d prefer if you weren’t relying on stray confections to power through financial discrepancies. That said… I’m relieved to hear you’re still in one piece. You’ve had a taxing afternoon. The situation with Johanna was not your burden to carry, and yet you did. Again. I wanted to make sure you weren’t quietly imploding at your desk.

ROOK: Johanna nearly gave me an aneurysm. Plus, just the usual slow-motion meltdown. Nothing a strong drink and poor karaoke choices won’t fix.

EMMRICH: I was rather hoping the drink you had earlier helped. Next time, I can cater to your preferences. For moral purposes.

ROOK: Sounds very managerial—very CEO.

EMMRICH: One does try to live up to the role. I assure you, my intentions were benevolent.

ROOK: You say that, but the new intern flinches every time you pass by.

EMMRICH: My dear, he left a fire door propped open with a stapler.

ROOK: Touché.

A pause and then a second message:

ROOK:
So... karaoke tonight. You coming?

EMMRICH: I haven’t yet decided. It’s not typically my scene. I don’t... frequent events like that. Not in a long time. I’m not easily persuaded to embarrass myself in public.

ROOK: Shame. I was hoping you’d do a moody ballad. Maybe something French and devastating.

EMMRICH: Afraid you’ll have to settle for my silent presence. Assuming I do attend.

ROOK: Oh, so you are considering it?

EMMRICH: One should make an effort to understand their team’s social dynamics. It’s good for morale.

ROOK: Right. For moral… Not because a particular employee will be there…definitely not singing badly on purpose.

EMMRICH: Certainly not. That would be wildly inappropriate.

ROOK: Mm. Guess I’ll see you there, then, for morale.

EMMRICH: Indeed, Miss Ingellvar. Carry on.

ROOK: Try and stop me.

***

Rook couldn’t help but smile, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, a warmth spreading through her chest as she was grateful for the privacy of her room. A bright pink flush colored her cheeks, and a wide grin, like the Cheshire cat’s, stretched across her face. Moving the trackpad, she navigated to her chat thread with Neve.

ROOK: He’s coming.

NEVE: Who?

ROOK: Emmrich. Mr “It’s Not My Scene” is officially attending karaoke.

NEVE: WHAT?!?!?! Are you kidding?

ROOK: Swear on my leftover mints. He said it’s for “team morale.”

NEVE: That’s code for “I want to watch you sing and pretend I’m not into it.”

ROOK: Shut up.

NEVE: Shame, we’re going straight from work, otherwise I’d dress you in something lethal. But I have an idea. See you at 4.55 pm.

***

The door creaked open, but Rook barely glanced up from her spreadsheet.

“Don’t fight me,” Neve said, already halfway inside, her makeup bag clutched like a weapon.

“I’m working.”

“Not for the next ninety seconds, you’re not.” She closed the door behind her, marched over, and spun Rook’s chair with practised flair.

Rook sighed but didn’t resist. She knew her friend well enough: quicker to let it happen than waste breath arguing.

Neve squinted at her like an artist inspecting a canvas. “You’ve got stress written all over your face.”

“I’ve got audit figures written all over my screen,” Rook muttered.

“Exactly.” Neve unzipped the bag. “You need an edge. The CEO is coming, remember?”

“He’s coming for team morale,” Rook said drily, but her heart still kicked a little at the reminder.

“Team morale, my arse,” Neve murmured, uncapping a slim lipstick tube. “Stay still.”

In a few deft strokes, she painted Ivy’s lips a deep, sultry red—bold, but clean. Confident.

“Dark red,” Rook muttered. “Subtle.”

Neve smirked. “Lethal, wasn’t it?”

Silently, without uttering a single word, she retrieved the eyeliner pencil and, leaning in close, gently tilted Rook’s chin upwards, preparing for the next step. Carefully and with precision, she went over Rook’s eyes, which were already shaped like wings, making them sharper, giving them the impression that they could slice through anything.

“Done.” Neve stepped back with a satisfied hum. “He’s not going to survive the first verse.”

Rook rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Let’s go raise morale, then.”

***

As the final rays of the afternoon sun cast a golden hue across the street, the group slowly began to emerge from the main doors of the bank, their departure a gentle trickle of people leaving the building.

Varric was already outside, jacket slung over one shoulder, squinting up at the sky like he was judging it. “If it rains, I’m blaming Davrin.”

“I control the weather now?” Davrin drawled, tucking his hands in his pockets.

“You always look like you lost a bet with a lightning bolt,” Harding teased, looping her arm through Taash’s.

Emmrich was the last to arrive, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. Buttoned coat, straight posture, yet his gaze quickly sought out Rook. Instead of speaking, he gave her a nearly invisible nod. She returned the nod.

Neve clapped her hands together. “Alright, nerds. To The Hanged Man!”

Lucanis cracked his neck. “Please tell me they’ve fixed the jukebox.”

“They haven’t,” Bellara said, grinning.

“Be grateful it’s karaoke night,” Rook said, falling into step beside Neve. “At least this time, the pain will be democratic.”

“Oh no,” Bellara said, turning with mock horror. “You’re not getting out of it this time.”

“I haven’t even—” Rook started.

“Doesn’t matter,” Neve cut in. “Same as last week, and the week before, you’ll be signed up the moment we walk through the door.”

Rook groaned. “I hate all of you.”

“You say that,” Davrin said, “but then you open your mouth and sing like a bloody siren.”

“Yeah,” Taash added. “Like, goosebumps levels of good.”

“I blacked out on the last chorus last week,” Lucanis said with faux awe. “Transcendental.”

“Traumatic,” Rook muttered.

“You mean transcendent,” Neve corrected.

Bellara leaned toward Emmrich, her voice stage-whisper loud. “She pretends to hate it every week. Then she sings something that makes half the pub fall in love with her.”

“Bell,” Rook warned, but her cheeks were turning pink.

“We only do it,” Harding said, “because it’s one of the few times you stop overthinking everything and just be.”

“And because it’s funny watching you try to murder us with your eyes,” Davrin added helpfully.

Behind them, Emmrich walked in silence. But Rook could feel him there—felt the weight of his gaze like the anticipation of a held note. He didn’t say a word, didn’t offer a comment or a smirk like the others. But somehow, that made her even more aware of herself.

This week, she knew, would be different.

***

As Rook reached for the pub door, the wooden sign above groaned in the wind, its weathered brass handle catching her fingers. As she opened the door, the sounds of music and laughter, mingled with the smell of beer and varnished wood, wafted out.

One by one, the others filtered past her with jostling shoulders and easy banter.

“First rounds on Davrin,” Varric called as he disappeared inside.

“Like hell it is!” came the reply, already halfway to the bar.

Neve gave Rook’s arm a light squeeze as she passed. “Don’t run,” she whispered, grinning. “We will find you.”

And then they were gone.

Emmrich was the last to approach, his footsteps measured on the stone step. Rook still held the door open, suddenly aware of how tightly she gripped it. She glanced up—and there he was, watching her with that quiet, unreadable gaze of his.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

For the door. For the night. For her.

She wasn’t sure.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, her voice light. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” he admitted, stepping closer. The space between them narrowed—not enough to touch, but enough that she could smell the faint mix of clean linen and some darker, spiced note that clung to him.

“It’s not really your kind of place,” she added, one brow arched.

“No,” he agreed. “But... I might find something worthwhile here.”

Her breath caught—but she smiled through it, quick and crooked. “Well. The jukebox’s broken, the floors are sticky, and I’ve been blackmailed into singing. Welcome to The Hanged Man.”

His lips curved just slightly. “Lead the way, Miss Ingellvar.”

As he crossed the threshold, she moved aside to let him pass, his coat brushing her arm warmly, his hand lingering for a second on her waist.

It wasn’t until the door closed that she finally breathed out.

Rook had a feeling tonight would be unlike any other night.

***

Emmrich POV

The pub was a hive of familiar activity—loud laughter, the cheerful clatter of glasses, and someone attempting a song slightly out of tune. With his coat already unbuttoned, Emmrich followed Varric toward the bar, hugging the edge of the crowd.

It smelled like varnish, beer, and decades of spilt memories.

“I’ll warn you now,” Varric said, leaning one elbow on the bar as he flagged the bartender. “You’ve entered hostile territory. Someone will try to convince you to sing. Don’t fall for it.”

“Rest assured,” Emmrich whispered, “I’m impossible to convince.”

Varric chuckled. “We’ll see.”

They waited in silence for a moment; the barkeep sliding down toward them with a nod of recognition. Varric rattled off the order—nothing fancy, just the usual suspects. Emmrich added a glass of red for himself at the end, something quiet and dry.

“So,” Varric said, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room, “what made you come tonight?”

Emmrich glanced at him. “Team morale, naturally.”

Varric snorted. “Right. That classic CEO's dedication to culture-building.”

Emmrich allowed a faint smile. “Should I have stayed at the office?”

“Maker, no,” Varric said, shaking his head. “She’s glad you came.”

That name didn’t need to be said.

“I noticed,” Emmrich replied quietly, watching Rook across the room. She sat with Neve, laughing as Bellara pantomimed some elaborate story, hands flying. The deep red on Ivy’s lips stood out like a promise.

“She doesn’t enjoy showing off,” Varric said. “Hates the spotlight. But every damn week, she gets up there anyway. Makes it look easy.”

“She has a remarkable voice?” Emmrich questioned.

“She does.” Varric’s eyes narrowed slightly, not unkindly. “I was there when she found it. She was six. Singing to herself in the bath. Didn’t know I was listening. Broke my heart a little.”

Emmrich didn’t answer right away. The barkeep returned with their tray—pints, bottles, and his wine. He picked up the stemware carefully, examining the dark liquid as if it might answer something.

“You’ve raised her well,” he said eventually, as he paid for the drinks.

Varric let out a slow breath. “I’ve tried. She’s sharp as hell. Stubborn as fire. Makes terrible decisions when she thinks she’s not worth more.”

Emmrich’s grip on the wineglass tightened. Just slightly.

Varric’s tone stayed even. “You don’t strike me as a man who makes casual choices, Volkarin. So whatever this is—if it’s anything—just don’t be careless with her.”

Emmrich met his gaze unflinchingly. “That will not be the case.”

Varric’s gaze remained unwavering. “Because if you hurt her...” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

A subtle exhalation, bordering on a smile, escaped Emmrich’s lips. “Understood.”

Emmrich’s gaze, however, was drawn to Rook, who was unaware of his attention as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

He wasn’t sure if he was here for the team.

But he was absolutely here for her.

***

The group settled into their usual spot, a cosy corner of The Hanged Man pub. Extra chairs, slightly mismatched but comfortably worn, had been pulled over to accommodate the size of their group, ensuring that everyone was close enough to share in the evening’s revelry.

Meanwhile, Neve and Bellara had been eagerly signing up a few brave souls for karaoke. The excitement of the prospect filled the air, but Bellara found it hard to concentrate whenever her gaze flickered toward Rook. A flush of warmth washed over her cheeks, turning her face a shade of deep crimson.

“Bell?” Rook began, her voice barely piercing through the lively chatter that filled the air, but her friend was already picking up her glass, gliding down to the other end of the table.

Neve leaned in conspiratorially, whispering to Taash and Davrin. Their laughter burst forth like an unexpected chorus, quickly followed by cheers that echoed around the room.

“That’s the stuff,” Davrin said with a mischievous wink aimed at Rook.

For fuck's sake! Rook cradled her head in her hands, feeling the pressure of the moment intensify.

“Come on, kid,” Varric’s voice boomed, cutting through the noise and drawing the attention of the entire table. “They do this every week. What makes you think tonight will be any different?”

“You’re safe,” Neve murmured, then smirked. “For now.”

“I didn’t even say anything,” Rook hissed.

“Don’t need to. Your face is screaming, ‘please don’t make me sing.’”

Bellara leaned across the table, stage-whispering, “She will be singing.”

“Absolutely,” Neve whispered back. “I bet your new boss is dying to hear you.”

Rook reached for her drink as Neve pushed the sign-up sheet down the table to the end where Bellara was now sitting. Of all the chairs, hers was nearest the DJ.

“Oh, that’s a different choice.” Rook looked at the song that they had scrawled next to her name and tilted her head.

“One of your favourites.” Neve gave a knowing smirk.

The lights dimmed slightly as the karaoke stage flickered. Someone else got up next — a girl doing her best pop diva impression. The group clapped supportively, half-listening.

Rook tried to sink further into the booth. Her thigh bumped against Neve’s, and she glared at her best friend, who just grinned like the devil herself.

On the other side of the table, Emmrich leaned back in his chair, watching Rook with quiet intensity. He hadn’t missed the flush on her cheeks. The murder glint in her eye as she glared at her friends. She was flustered.

He picked up his phone and sent her a message.

EMMRICH: You look deliciously outraged. I hope it’s not directed at me.

Her phone buzzed. She read it. Glared across the table at him.

Then, with calculated calm, she typed back:

ROOK: If you can’t think of a way to save me from getting up there, then I will be very annoyed at you, too!

Emmrich chuckled to himself and slipped his phone into his pocket.

The stage lights pulsed in time with the music, casting colourful glows over the pub. Another singer was halfway through an overambitious power ballad, and the crowd responded with polite clapping and quiet heckles from the back.

Emmrich stood casually, murmured something to Varric, and began moving around the outside of the table. He didn’t make a show of it. No dramatic entrance. Just a slow, deliberate drift — until he stood beside Rook’s chair.

“Excuse me,” he said lightly, and before she could respond, he’d taken the empty seat beside her, the one Neve had briefly abandoned to grab another drink.

Rook stiffened. “Oh. Hello again.”

“You looked cold,” he said mildly, eyes scanning the stage. “Thought I’d offer a little warmth.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You thought my soul-crushing dread was due to temperature?”

“I’m considerate like that.”

“You’re something,” she muttered, reaching for her drink.

He leaned just a little closer, his breath ghosting across her skin. “You seem nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

“That’s surprising,” he mumbled. “You don’t strike me as the type to be easily rattled.”

“I wonder if it’s because,” Rook pondered, a faint clink from her glass the only sound, “I rarely sit next to my boss, who decides my job fate.”

Emmrich chuckled. “Would it comfort you to know that I have no expectations?”

Rook turned toward him, her tone dry. “Do you say that to all your employees right before they perform in public?”

Quietly, and with a slight tilt of his head, he spoke. “No. Just the ones I can’t stop watching.”

That made her quiet. Fidgeting with her hands, she blinked, her cheeks warming once more. “That’s a dangerous thing to admit.”

“Is it?” His voice was velvet. “Or is it already too obvious to deny?”

Their eyes locked.

The lights from the stage cast him in a flicker of green and gold, and she hated how beautiful he looked in the low light — how comfortable, how close.

Neve returned just then, breaking the moment. “Oh,” she said brightly, clocking the new seating arrangement. “Well, aren’t you two cosy?”

“Just trying to steady her nerves,” Emmrich replied easily.

“She doesn’t need steadying,” Neve said, rejoining them with fresh drinks. “She just needs to get up there and do it.”

Rook’s stomach twisted.

It didn’t matter that this happened every week. That Neve and Bellara always did this. That she should have been ready. This week was different. Emmrich was here. Watching. And worse — near. His thigh brushed hers under the table — a faint contact, but her nerves immediately flared like electricity.

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Instead, she tried to steady her breathing, counting the rise and fall of her chest like it might anchor her. One hand curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. The other, resting in her lap, trembled slightly — just enough to make her want to hide it.

He saw it.

Without a word, Emmrich reached down under the table, hidden from view, and covered her hand with his.

Warm.

Grounded.

Present.

He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t draw attention. Just placed his hand there, palm to palm, skin to skin, holding her steady with a quiet certainty.

Rook’s lips parted. Her gaze flicked to him, and for once, she didn’t have a snarky retort.

He didn’t look at her—not directly. His eyes stayed on the stage, but the faintest tilt of his head and the most minor upward twitch of his mouth let her know he was aware of her every reaction.

Then it came.

The DJ’s voice rang through the speakers with too much cheer.

“And now, stepping up for her weekly surprise performance… give it up for our very own mystery siren — Rook!”

The table exploded in applause and cheers.

Rook closed her eyes for half a second, steeling herself. When she opened them, her gaze snapped to Emmrich.

His gaze revealed a quiet, controlled, yet undeniable hunger. He didn’t just want her to perform.

He wanted to watch her unravel.

She stood.

He let her hand go only at the last possible second.

And as she stepped up toward the stage, Rook wasn’t sure what burned hotter — the fear of singing, or the feeling of his touch still lingering on her skin.

***

The DJ gestured for her to come forward, his expression both apologetic and amused. “Sorry, Rook. You know how Neve is.” He showed her the song that had been selected—a slow, heartfelt ballad that carried a depth. “Is that alright? It’s not the usual kind they sign you up for.”

Rook glanced back at the table; Neve lifted her glass high, laughing uproariously, her joy echoing as others joined in, their smiles encouraging yet daunting. Rook caught Emmrich’s gaze; he was smiling too, but the intensity in his eyes was different—a shadow of something deeper flickering within them.

“It’s one of my favourites,” she said, attempting to suppress the unease creeping over her.

“Are you ready?”

With a nod fueled by determination, she stepped confidently toward the vibrant lyric display, its bright screen illuminating the room with familiar words she had sung countless times in her mind, in her shower, and when they had gotten drunk a few weeks ago. Though she knew the lyrics by heart, her focus sharpened as she stared at the screen, her gaze locked on the flowing words. With a firm grip, she held the microphone.

The bass line vibrated in the air with the powerful rhythm of a heartbeat. Several patrons glanced up, intrigued. A silence descended across their table.

She closed her eyes. She could do this. She would do this.

Her voice started low. Softer than anyone expected. Fragile, even.

The melody wrapped around her vocal cords like silk and smoke. She wasn’t trying to perform — not in the polished, pop-star way. She let it come from somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

Her gaze opened and scanned the room, past strangers, past the buzz of lights and the low laughter from the booths. Her eyes found his.

And the world narrowed.

He’s watching.

Maker, he’s really watching.

You’re not imagining that. That stillness — that focus. It’s all on you.

He’s not smiling now.

Not smirking.

Just staring, like he’s trying to memorise the way your lips move around every word.

Breathe.

Don’t think about the way his hand felt over yours. Don’t think about how warm it was. Don’t think about how he let go, like it cost him something.

Just sing.

The pitch of her voice noticeably dropped, taking on a richer, more resonant quality than it had previously possessed. Smokier. Richer.

She observed the muscles in his jaw tighten.

The room wasn’t silent, not precisely, but the atmosphere had shifted. Conversations hushed; a few people leaned forward; a bartender paused mid-pour. She barely moved, one hand gripping the microphone stand, hips cocked slightly, head tilted in a gesture of confession, as if the words, plucked from a diary, had been woven into melody. Yet her voice washed over the crowd like honeyed whisky.

As the music built to its emotional peak, a tremendous wave of feeling surged within her. With daring resolve, she closed her eyes and poured her heart into the song, her voice echoing across the room, resounding with raw emotion. She was utterly lost in the beauty of the moment. When she finally opened her eyes, she found her friends watching, their expressions filled with awe.

And Emmrich Volkarin didn’t blink.

***

Emmrich’s POV

Emmrich sat perfectly still, acutely aware of the condensation forming on the outside of his glass. As she sang, he felt his breath slow. The words that left her lips sounded like a surrender.

She was on stage, but she wasn’t performing for the audience; she was performing just for him.

His hand clenched into a fist against his thigh, his knuckles tightening with the effort to restrain himself. He couldn’t look away, not even when Bellara leaned over to whisper something teasing to Neve or when Varric snorted into his beer.

Because she had him.

Completely.

The lyrics flowed from her lips like silk being torn open. His jaw tightened in response.

His trousers grew uncomfortably tight, and it took every ounce of discipline not to shift, not to adjust, not to give away how hard he’d become.

Maker’s mercy. Her voice. Her mouth. That subtle sway of her hips. The way she held the mic like it was the only thing stopping her from falling apart.

Emmrich exhaled slowly through his nose, dragging his eyes away for just a second, trying to cool the heat flooding through his veins.

But the moment he looked back at her, she caught him.

Eyes locked. Her lips parted in the smallest, most wicked smile.

And the last note slid from her mouth like a secret she wanted him to chase.

The room erupted in applause. Whistles. Laughter. Cheers.

But all Emmrich heard was blood in his ears and the steady drumbeat of lust roaring through him.

He raised his glass to his lips to hide the curve of a smile he couldn’t suppress.

He was ruined.

And she knew it.

***

The applause was still echoing in the back of her mind, but her own heartbeat drowned it out. Her hand trembled slightly as she passed the mic back to the DJ. She gave a small smile, trying to play it cool, like she hadn’t just poured her soul into the mic in front of her friends and her new boss. Like she hadn’t locked eyes with him mid-song and felt something snap taut between them.

Bellara was clapping obnoxiously as Rook returned, nudging Neve with her elbow. “Tell me that wasn’t the sexiest performance this bar has ever seen.”

Neve was half-laughing, half-swooning. “I’m taken, and I’d still climb her like a tree.”

“Oh my god, stop,” Rook groaned, tugging at the hem of her skirt as she slid into her seat.

Varric leaned over, smirking. “You nearly gave the old guy at the pool table a heart attack.”

“Good,” Rook muttered, reaching for her drink and swallowing a generous gulp.

Davrin offered a mock salute with his beer.

Taash and Harding were grinning, their joined hands on the table. “That was sultry,” Harding said. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“No, I just had my arm twisted,” Rook replied, her tone dry, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her.

Then she felt it again — that presence.

She turned her head.

Emmrich had shifted.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. But his chair was closer. Just a few inches. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again. That subtle gravity he carried, like he bent the room toward himself without trying.

His glass was raised to his lips, but his eyes were on her.

Dark. Steady.

He hadn’t clapped. Not once. But his gaze made up for it tenfold.

“You’re wasted on finance,” he murmured, voice pitched for her ears alone. “You should be worshipped in velvet lounges and dimly lit stages.”

Rook tried to look unimpressed. It didn’t work.

“Dangerous words, Professor,” she replied, her voice soft. “You might inspire me to quit.”

He tilted his head. “I might enjoy being your last audience.”

Her heart gave a violent thump — too loud, too stupid — and she turned to take another drink to avoid answering that.

“Another round?” Varric asked the table, and Lucanis stood instantly to give him a hand.

Emmrich leaned across the table. “Rook, Neve, I need your opinions. I’ve secured The Diamond for Friday. The other venues Varric suggested can’t accommodate us on such short notice. Is there a reason Varric suggested the change?”

Rook nudged Neve’s leg under the table as she turned to look at her friend, and she spoke so Rook wouldn’t have to.

“I think it’s because we went there two months ago. A few of us got very drunk and made fools of ourselves.”

“Everyone can make a spectacle of themselves. If things were that dire, then Lucanis’s cousin wouldn’t have been so eager to host us.”

“Illario will do anything for his cousin.” Neve smiled. “Even if it meant putting the entire city of Nevarra at risk.” Neve turned to look at Rook. “What do you think?”

Rook shrugged. She knew she would have to face him at some point. She decided she would make sure to get her own drinks, and if it came down to it, she wouldn’t let food or drink pass her lips. “If you’ve tried other options, I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

Rook didn’t need to look to see that Neve was staring open-mouthed at her.

That’s when Varric came back.

“What were you talking about?” A hush descended as Lucanis spoke.

“Friday night,” Rook offered. “Varric feels guilty for your cousin helping us out again. I thought maybe if it was too much, we could try somewhere else. But I was saying to Emmrich…” Rook turned her eyes to her uncle, making sure he understood her words: not to worry about changing the plans.

Varric sipped his drink, grimacing as if the liquid held a bitter taste. “As long as everyone is happy.”

“No point in making a big fuss.” She offered Varric a smile, and he knocked back his drink.

Varric motions to Rook so they can talk.

Once they were out of earshot of the others, Varric asked her, “You sure about this, kid? I haven’t had a private moment with Emmrich to—”

“It’ll be okay.”

“You always say that. You always put others first.”

***

Emmrich was at the bar, getting a soft drink for them both, when Rook reappeared from the bathroom. Reaching into the depths of his pocket, he fumbled around until he found his card. Moving silently and with careful steps, she stalked behind him until she was close enough to reach out. Beep. The soft chime of her payment went through before he could protest.

“Too slow,” she said, voice light with victory.

He smirked, accepting it. “You’ll regret that.”

“Oh, I do hope so.” She handed him his drink, fingers brushing his — deliberate, fleeting.

“I owed you a coffee, remember?” she said smoothly, her voice just loud enough to carry over the chatter around them. “Consider this partial repayment.”

“That was never meant to be paid back,” he murmured, stepping a fraction closer. “I bought you that as an apology.”

“You’re not the only one allowed to be generous,” she said. “Besides—” she lowered her voice, tilting her head just slightly toward him “—if you’d paid for this round, someone might’ve started whispering.”

“And you’re not concerned they’re whispering already?”

She paused.

“I don’t care what they say,” she lied. Then added, a little quieter, “Most days.”

He studied her. The pub’s amber and neon glow highlighted the violet in her eyes, more than their brown. Her lips were parted, suggesting further words, but none came. Confidence radiated from her steady stance. But her fingers fidgeted with the corner of a napkin on the bar.

The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable — just… charged.

“You surprised me tonight,” he said.

“Was it the song?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral. Or that I didn’t run for the door?”

“It was all of it,” he said. “And none of it.”

She blinked. “That’s cryptic.”

“I’m trying to remain professional.”

Her throat went dry. “And how’s that working out for you?”

His smile barely lifted his mouth. “Poorly.”

“Oh,” she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her. Casual. Unbothered. “Did you get that email I forwarded? Sent it maybe ten minutes ago before we left the office.” Then, as if it were an afterthought, she tilted her head toward him.

Emmrich pulled out his phone, the screen casting that familiar glow over his features. Rook watched him as he scrolled — the slight tension in his brow, the focus in his gaze. And while his attention stayed on the device, she opened her own, thumb hovering for only the briefest second before she hit send.

The photo — that photo — slid across the invisible line between them, delivered in a heartbeat.

His phone vibrated softly in his hand.

She watched him see it.

The change in him was subtle but unmistakable — the flicker of surprise as he registered the notification, then the stillness as he opened it. His eyes darkened as they traced whatever he saw on that screen, like storm clouds gathering, slow and sure. His jaw shifted, the muscle there tightening just slightly. And his grip on the phone firmed, as if steadying himself against what she’d just given him.

Rook’s smile curved, lazy, and deliberate. She lifted her glass again, taking her time before speaking, voice smooth and edged with heat.

“Oh, that?” she said, feigning lightness but knowing full well what she’d done. “I was going to send you that this morning. Thought maybe it’s the sort of thing you would have wanted for breakfast.”

His gaze tore from the screen then, lifted to her — and this time, there was no mask, no barrier between them. Just the raw, quiet burn of everything unspoken, everything promised.

He leaned in, voice low enough that only she could hear. “I want that for every meal.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke — the air between them charged, heavy with everything that had been simmering beneath the surface. His eyes were still on her, dark and burning, as if he could see right through the calm she wore like armour.

Rook tilted her head, enjoying the way he looked at her now, the way his control frayed at the edges. “Careful, Emmrich,” she said, voice low, playful, but there was intensity beneath it. “People might start to notice the way you’re staring.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His grip on the glass tightened. For a split second, it looked like he might answer — some sharp, clever thing that would match her word for word — but instead, he stepped back.

“I need—” His voice broke off, not uncertain, but restrained. Fighting himself.

And before she could say anything else, he was gone — moving through the crowd, cutting across the bar, pushing out into the night like a man who’d stayed too long in the fire.

Rook watched him go, a slow smile curving her lips, heart beating just a little faster. Savouring the taste, the victory, and the ache of her unsatisfied wanting, she sipped her drink.

Rook placed her drink on the table and settled back into the booth, as the group had shrunk, some going to play on the pool table while the others sang. Neve and Lucanis sat at the opposite end of the table, deep in whispers, his arm draped around her shoulders.

Rook felt her phone vibrate three times.

EMMRICH: That photo will be the death of me.

EMMRICH: Do you have any idea what you do to me?

EMMRICH: My darling girl. If you knew the things I’m thinking right now…

Rook bit the inside of her cheek, pulse skipping. She tilted the screen down for privacy and typed with one hand.

ROOK: Big words, Professor. Care to show me?

The typing dots appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then reappeared again.

Her mouth went dry.

The following message came through.

No words this time.

Just a photo. Her eyes widened.

Dim lighting. Crisp white shirt pushed up, trousers unfastened. The implication was undeniable — thick and heavy, veined, barely contained in his hand. Cropped tastefully. Enough to leave her burning.

Just him. Wanting.

Her pulse thrummed. A slow, wicked smile curved her lips as she lifted her glass for one last sip, tasting victory.

Her fingers moved over the screen, sure and steady.

ROOK: Careful. Someone might catch you making a mess of that nice suit. You could invite a girl to watch?

The reply came fast, as if he’d been waiting on her, needing the fuel.

EMMRICH : Come and find me. And you’d better hope I don’t finish before you get here.

EMMRICH: You can join me if you can find me. Be quick, I am rather fond of your stockings.

Another picture received, from the car park across the road. The words top floor underneath.

ROOK: Oh, professor, I thought this was meant to be hard.

EMMRICH: I will show you how hard it can be.

***

***

Having bid her farewells, Rook picked up her bag, making a conscious effort to remain composed until she stepped outside into the cool evening air. Having crossed the road, she made her way towards the elevator and then ascended in the elevator to the top floor of the building.

And there it was.

His car sat beneath the harsh glow of a single overhead light, the engine off, windows half-fogged. She could see his silhouette through the windshield — head back, hand still working himself slowly, as if trying to outlast his own need.

Rook approached, deliberate, every step slow, letting her heels announce her. His head turned as she came into view, his eyes finding hers through the glass. Dark. Hungry.

She stopped at the driver’s side door, heart pounding, lips parted, and for a long breath neither of them spoke — the night itself seemed to hold still.

Finally, she leaned down, voice low, wicked through the gap in the window.

“Didn’t think I’d let you finish alone, did you?”

His hand stilled. His jaw clenched. And she knew — in that moment — that whatever restraint he’d been clinging to was about to snap.

Emmrich didn’t say a word. He reached across the passenger door unlocked with a solid, heavy click. Rook didn’t wait for more. She slid inside, the car’s warmth wrapping around her, the scent of him sharp and clean and already too much.

Her eyes dropped — and there he was, fully exposed now. Big. Thick. Hard in a way that spoke of how long he’d been fighting it, how much he’d tried to hold himself back. His hand was still at the base, but his knuckles were white from restraint. White from how tightly he gripped himself, as if afraid that if he let go, it would all be over too soon.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air inside the car crackled, thick with want. His chest rose and fell fast, his eyes on hers, dark and wild and wrecked with want.

Rook smirked.

She leaned in, voice low, breath hot against his ear. “You were going to finish without me.”

His breath shuddered out of him, his free hand coming up, curling around the back of her neck, pulling her in like he couldn’t stop himself — couldn’t want to. His mouth crashed to hers—heat and hunger and something ragged beneath. Rough at first, teeth catching her lip, then deeper. Slower. Like he needed to taste her to survive.

He groaned into her mouth, hips jerking helplessly, the fight gone.

Her lips dragged higher, along his jaw, to the spot just beneath his ear—

And then she bit.

Not hard. Just enough.

Enough to promise more. Enough to make him feel.

Her hand slid to his lap, curled around him, confident. Sure.

His head dropped back against the headrest with a thud. He groaned—deep and guttural—and his hand flexed at his side, trying not to grab her.

She smiled against his skin.

“Ivy—” he choked, voice raw.

He was hard. Painfully so. Her touch was firm, every movement calculated to make him lose himself. She didn’t rush. Her strokes were slow, wickedly patient.

Her fingers were steady, cruel in their patience, stroking him with the kind of slow, deliberate rhythm that made his breath falter in his chest. The night wrapped around them like a secret — all steel and shadow, the soft hum of the city far below, the interior light barely flickering to life with their movements.

His hips shifted involuntarily. She pulled back, just an inch, watching his face—flushed, jaw clenched, restraint cracking.

Emmrich’s composure cracked.

With a strained groan, he reached for her, cupping her face. Warm. Shaking.

His hands came up to cup her face, palms warm and shaking just slightly as he drew her in. Their foreheads met. His nose brushed hers—not a kiss, but closer.

Needier.

He held her there, the press of his brow against hers grounding him as her hand continued its slow, expert rhythm between his legs, the storm inside him building.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispered, his voice raw, broken against her cheek.

She didn’t answer. She just kept her eyes on him, her grip firm and wicked, her thumb circling just right, her breath brushing his lips like a dare.

And he let her.

His head fell against the side of hers, temple to temple, one hand tangled gently in her hair now, the other gripping her jaw as if anchoring himself, like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Every stroke of her hand dragged a new sound from him—moans, curses, broken fragments of restraint. His hips moved with her instinct overwhelming.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice cracking in her ear.

She gave a soft hum of encouragement, her lips barely skimming his skin.

“You’re beautiful like this,” she whispered. “Falling apart in my hands.”

His fingers tightened in her hair.

Emmrich was trembling beneath her touch now, torn between restraint and desperation, every muscle drawn tight with the effort not to come too quickly.

Rook leaned in, brushing her lips to his ear again — not kissing, just close enough to feel her breath like silk across his skin.

“You know,” she murmured, lips brushing his ear, “when I took that photo this morning…”

Her hand stroked with purpose. He started to pant.

“I was already wet before I even took it. Just thinking about how you sounded on the phone last night.”

He choked out a curse.

“I couldn’t sleep. I touched myself at 2 a.m., legs spread wide, thinking about how you say ‘my dear girl’ like it means something else entirely.”

His head jerked, lips parting to speak—but no words came.

She licked slowly over the curve of his ear and murmured, “Then you called and I said I dropped my phone…” Her hand stroked down and squeezed, slow and wicked. “I was already there, Emmrich. I was on the edge, whispering your name. I went to decline your call so I could finish…”

“Fuck—” he growled, hips bucking into her palm.

“I didn’t realise I had answered it by mistake.” She nuzzled along his clenched jaw. “And when we hung up?” She tilted her head just enough to brush the corner of his mouth with hers. “I finished again. Two orgasms before sunrise. All because of you.”

His body jolted at her words, a groan rumbling low in his chest like something caged too long.

Emmrich shuddered.

Her fingers moved faster now, coaxing him to the edge with ease, her breath hot on his cheek.

“Do you want to come for me?” she asked, soft, dangerous

His reply was a strangled, desperate nod, his grip on her suddenly brutal with need.

She smiled. “Then say it.”

“I need to confess something,” he said, voice low, hoarse, but steady now. His hand cupped her jaw again, thumb brushing the edge of her lips. “I’ve been ruining myself over you for days.”

Rook blinked at him, lips parted in amused disbelief. “Oh?”

“Monday night,” he continued, tone sharp with need, “I stared at that photo of you in the red dress until I couldn’t take it. The way your breasts looked—”

She felt him twitch in her hand.

“I came to that image so hard, my knees nearly gave out. And still I wanted more.”

She licked her lips. “Tell me.”

“Tuesday morning, in the shower,” he rasped, his fingers moving to her hair, sliding through slowly, deliberately. “I thought about the way you bit your lip. About how you moved when you walked away from me.”

His grip tightened. “And then after our late shift… when I massaged your aching neck.”

Rook nodded slowly, recalling the moment, the teasing exchange.

“I couldn’t get the sounds you made out of my head.” He shuddered. “When I got home… I couldn’t wait. I jerked off to the thought of you bent over my desk.”

Her breath caught.

“And then I did it again.” His voice was rougher now, his control slipping back into dominance. “Harder. Faster. And still it wasn’t enough.”

Rook’s pulse thrummed, her hand still wrapped around him, her mouth suddenly dry with anticipation. Her grip tightened slightly, stroking him with more purpose now, watching the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t bear it.

He tilted her chin up with two fingers.

“I want your mouth, my dear girl,” he growled.

And the way he said it—it wasn’t a request.

It was a claim.

Instead, she leaned leisurely, deliberately, over the centre console, her hand still wrapped around him. Her lips brushed the tip of his cock, her breath warm and teasing.

Emmrich’s hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white.

“Maker,” he muttered, eyes screwing shut, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run five miles. “You’re going to kill me. “I’ve thought about this. You. Your mouth. Your hands. Wanked over you so many times. It’s never enough.” His breath hitched as she worked him, slow, deliberate, watching him come undone for her. “I think it’s because I know… it won’t ever be as good as the real thing. As good as you.”

She looked up at him, dark lashes lifting just enough for him to see the smirk behind her intent. And then—

Her lips parted, and she took him in.

The sound he made was strangled.

Desperate.

Her mouth was a warm, wet heaven around him. She started slow, her tongue tracing him with reverence, like she was memorising the shape of him. But he was thick, long. She struggled to take him all, adjusted, gagged softly, pulled back, then tried again, determined. Her hand worked in tandem, stroking what she couldn’t yet take.

“Good girl,” he breathed, one hand coming off the wheel to rest in her hair. “Just like that.”

She hummed in response; the vibration making him twitch. She pulled back, breathless, lips slick.

“You’re so big,” she whispered against his length. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to take you all the way.”

“I knew you’d try,” he growled, jaw tight.

And she did. Again and again, her movements became bolder, hungrier. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked harder, and his praises came in a steady stream.

“That’s it… You feel incredible.”

“Such a beautiful mouth.”

“You take me so well.”

He wasn’t even pretending to be composed anymore. One hand fisted tight in her hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ve dreamed about this.”

She moaned, taking him deeper on that confession, and his hips jerked before he forced them still.

“Ivy—” It was a warning, a plea, a praise all in one.

His thighs trembled.

He was close.

Rook pulled back slowly, lips gliding over his length with maddening care. Her hand stayed wrapped around him, pumping in a slow, rhythmic motion that made his hips twitch despite his efforts to stay still.

“Not yet,” she whispered, licking the underside of his tip, then dragging her tongue over it again to hear him gasp. “You’re not allowed to come yet.”

He growled her name—“Ivy…”—but it was a second warning, almost broken.

She met his eyes from under her lashes, her voice dark with amusement. “What would your staff think if they saw you like this? Their dragon of a CEO, undone by one of your little employees’ mouths.”

His jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “You’re not little. You’re lethal.”

“Mmm,” she purred, running her tongue along the slit, lapping up the salty taste of him. “I haven’t even started being cruel.”

“Don’t—” he drawled, his mouth hanging open, watching her as though she might pull his soul from his chest next. “You keep this up and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” she murmured. “Lose that precious control of yours?”

And then, without giving him another second to recover, she took him back into her mouth. Her rhythm this time was merciless. Deeper. Wetter. No more teasing.

And he couldn’t stop the sound he made.

His grip in her hair tightened—not pulling, but anchoring. His other hand cradled her cheek, thumb stroking along her skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch her. Rook moved on him with growing hunger, and he was unravelling with every breath.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice ragged, low. “Look at you. Look how perfect you are for me.”

Her lips sealed around him, her eyes lifted to meet his—and that did something violent to him. He swore, chest heaving, as his hips fought against his restraint.

“You have no idea…” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek again, slower now. “No one—no one—has ever taken me like this.”

Rook moaned softly around him, the vibration punching a curse from his lungs. The wet sounds, the tremble in his thighs, the heat low in his belly—it was all hitting at once.

And Emmrich was fighting against his restraint.

He gritted his teeth. “I’m not going to last.”

She didn’t slow.

“Fuck, Ivy—I’m going to—”

Her hands gripped his thighs, bracing herself—and then she swallowed him deeper.

All of him.

His vision whited out. His head slammed back against the seat as a raw, guttural cry tore from his throat.

“Maker, Ivy—”

Emmrich’s release hit hard. Unstoppable. He choked, his whole body shuddering as he came, hot and thick, spilling down her throat. Her name was a broken chant on his lips as she held him there, swallowing every drop, never once looking away. Her mouth never wavering as she felt his pulse underneath her tongue.

The moment pulsed—still.

And he crumbled in her hands. Every wall shattered.

Emmrich’s head rested against the seat, eyes closed, still trying to gather himself, to steady the storm she’d left in her wake. His shirt clung to him, damp at the collar, his knuckles pale where they still gripped the wheel as if to remind himself where he was, who he was.

Rook watched him, calm now, but with that same wicked glint in her violet-brown eyes, satisfaction humming through her veins. She smoothed her dress, slow and deliberate, fingers still tingling from the feel of him.

Then, voice low, playful, but threaded with dark promise, she said:

“Drop me home, professor.”

The words hung between them, soft as silk, sharp as a blade.

His eyes opened at that — dark still, but clearer now, focused on her, as if seeing her for the first time all over again. His jaw clenched, his hands flexed on the wheel. For a beat, he didn’t move — as if weighing whether he could trust himself with her so close, so his. Then, without a word, he started the engine.

The drive was quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. The city lights flickered over their faces as they passed, casting them in a golden glow and shadow. His hands stayed tight on the wheel, but every so often, his gaze slid to her — as if to remind himself she was real, as if to memorise the shape of her in the dashboard's glow.

And Rook — she sat back, composed, but inside, she felt the way the night had shifted them. The way he gripped the wheel was like he was holding on to the last thread of control. The way he was the one undone now, and she was the one who’d done it.

She stole glances at him, one after another, when she thought he wasn’t watching. When the streetlights weren’t quite bright enough to catch her.

He looked straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel with casual control… until he smirked.

Caught.

Rook’s eyes snapped back to the window, her lips twitching into a guilty smile.

“You’re awful at pretending not to look,” he said, voice low, velvet.

“Perhaps I wasn’t pretending.”

Another smirk played on his lips, but he remained silent. As he pulled up outside her building, Emmrich kept the engine running and watched her.

Rook leaned in, her breath warm against his skin as her lips brushed his ear.

“Good night, Professor,” she murmured, her voice soft and tender. “Sweet dreams.” She kissed his cheek and then vanished into the darkness, leaving him with his heart pounding and hands trembling, already yearning for the next time he would see her.

Chapter Text

Rook grabbed her phone from the bedside table. The clock glowed, displaying 12:08 AM. She’d been tossing and turning in bed for at least an hour, her mind filled with thoughts of the influential CEO, Emmrich Volkarin.

The memory of him trembling beneath her touch, his girth barely contained by her mouth as she leaned over his fancy car’s console, kept her awake. Butterflies filled her stomach. It wasn’t a quid pro quo situation for her. Rook aimed to break him down systematically, one perfect piece at a time, and she truly excelled.

As she playfully taunted him, his stammering speech, shaking legs, and hands fighting to remain still. A smile touched her lips as she experienced a rush of excitement and power. Sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. Launching Instafade, she snapped a selfie; afterwards, she used a filter to make it black and white. Her noticeable cleavage didn’t require any further enhancement, as it was already prominent. The tank top she was wearing, with no bra, brought attention to her assets. Pausing briefly, she decided against cropping the picture and posted it, muttering “Screw it.”

There was one reason behind her actions, or rather, one person she had in mind. Rook wanted to provoke a reaction from him, to see how long it would take for him to respond. A smug grin stretched across her face as the likes piled up, contentment as complete as a cat’s after a successful hunt. She posted the photo at 12:12 AM, and by 12:14 AM, her FadeApp pinged.

EMMRICH: Take. It. Down.

Her smile widened.

ROOK: A little late for that, Professor. Already got a few likes.

The sensitivity of her nipples caused them to tighten against the fabric. She shifts slightly, legs brushing together under the sheets, remembering the sound he made when she took him deep—how his voice had broken like glass.

EMMRICH: I don’t give a damn about likes.

ROOK: I was feeling generous. Now I’m just… restless.

As she typed, she chewed on her lip. Restless didn’t even begin to cover it. Rook clenched her thighs together as heat pooled in her lower belly, the ache both maddening and delicious.

EMMRICH: You were ravenous. Maker, I feel as though I’m still gripping the steering wheel like it owes me something.

ROOK: That bad, huh?

She shifts onto her side, phone propped on her pillow, her free hand sliding absently over her stomach, down. Just enough to tease, not yet enough to satisfy.

EMMRICH: That good, my dear. Still can’t believe the sounds I made.

ROOK: I can. You begged.

She could n still feel it: his hands in her hair, the way his hips bucked, the growl of her name torn from his throat.

EMMRICH: And what if I did?

ROOK: Then I’d say I did my job. Made the brilliant Professor Volkarin fall apart in the front seat of his own damn car.

A soft laugh escapes her—low, sultry. She stretches, slow and feline, her tank top riding higher.

EMMRICH: You think you’ve won something?

ROOK: No. I know I did. The way your hands shook… the way you watched me. Afterwards… you didn’t know whether to kiss me or lock me in your trunk.

EMMRICH: I’m still deciding.

ROOK: Mmm. I’d like to see you try. Might even bite.

Her fingers drift lower. A single feather-light stroke over lace, making her hips twitch. Not yet.

EMMRICH: I hope you do. Maker, I bet you were soaking. I need to taste you on my tongue. The only thing is, once I start, I won’t be able to stop.

Her body responds instantly—an electric throb, a pulse of wetness. She presses her thighs together and let the pleasure linger just out of reach.

ROOK: Careful. You’re starting to sound obsessed.

EMMRICH: I am. And so are you. Don’t pretend you’re posting thirst traps at midnight for anyone else.

ROOK: Caught me red-handed. But I didn’t do it for praise. I wanted to remind you who brought you to your knees tonight.

The memory alone could make her come undone.

EMMRICH: You didn’t have to remind me. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About you. Kneeling over the centre console, making me forget how to breathe. Darling. I’m still shaking.

ROOK: Good. Now suffer.

EMMRICH: Oh, I am. Hope you’re proud of yourself. I’m as hard as a rock and haunted by the sound of your mouth as you stretched to take me whole… such determination, my darling girl.

Her fingers slide beneath her waistband. Just a little pressure. Just enough to make her sigh.

EMMRICH: Your mouth. Your control. The way you took your time—like you knew I couldn’t handle it. Like you wanted me ruined.

ROOK: Maybe I did. Maybe I still do. And you know what?

EMMRICH: What, my wicked girl?

ROOK: I loved it. I love knowing I can do that to you.

EMMRICH: You’re dangerous. You know that?

ROOK: Only to men who think they’re in control.

Rook sighed as she touched herself and placed her phone down, replacing it with her toy. But the phone buzzing again made her pause.

EMMRICH: You looked beautiful.

She froze. Just for a second.

ROOK: What?

EMMRICH: Tonight. In the car. Streetlight catching your cheekbones. Eyes dark and determined. Your mouth—Maker. You were more than beautiful. You were devastating.

Her throat tightens. Heat blooms behind her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that.

ROOK: …

EMMRICH: I needed you to know that. You shattered me in the best fucking way.

ROOK: Say that again.

EMMRICH: No.

ROOK: Coward.

EMMRICH: Tease. Witch. Mine.

She presses her legs together again, her fingers curling tighter around her toy. A slow, knowing smirk pulls at her lips.

ROOK: Hmmmm, two secs, I need to take another picture and post it… Perhaps I’ll crop the next one lower. Show the matching thong I’m wearing.

EMMRICH: Don’t you fucking dare.

ROOK: Or what, Professor? You gonna punish me if I do? Because I’m starting to think you like it when I misbehave.

EMMRICH: What I like is when you’re kneeling……. Damn it, Ivy. I’m still piecing myself back together.

ROOK: You didn’t seem to mind at the time. If anything, I think you liked being helpless.

EMMRICH: Only for you. You know that, don’t you?

A beat. Her fingers move again. Slower now, stroking deliberately. Her hips shift.

EMMRICH: I can’t stop thinking of you. Hair a mess from my hands. Mouth slick with me. It’s burned into me now.

ROOK: …Emmrich.

EMMRICH: You understand no one’s ever taken me like that? Not with that kind of hunger. That control. I hope it’s something I get to experience again.
But Fade take me—It’s engraved in my fucking mind now.
Something I’ll be forced to wank over if I’m never fortunate enough to feel that wicked mouth wrapped around my cock again.

EMMRICH: We both know you’ve got a friend in the drawer. Top right, if I had to guess. Easy access.
If you do decide to play with yourself tonight…
Make it for me. Say my name as you drip onto your bedsheets. Let me know how soaked you get just thinking about me coming undone in your mouth.

She exhales. Deep, shaky.

ROOK: You mean like this…?

Rook holds her phone up high and snaps quickly. The photo is perfect. Her thighs parted. Tank top rucked up just enough. One hand between her legs, lace pushed aside. The look in her eyes says everything: hungry, unashamed, his.

Typing… then nothing.
A long beat.

EMMRICH: You’re going to be the death of me.

ROOK: Then I hope it’s slow.
Drawn-out. Messy.
The kind of death you beg for.

EMMRICH: You have no idea what you’re doing to me.

ROOK: I think I do. I’ve never seen a man come so hard, he forgot where he was.
You didn’t even blink when I swallowed. Just stared.
Like I’d gutted you and you liked it.

EMMRICH: I did like it. Every fucking second.
The way you moaned around me—like it was your pleasure, too.
I want it again. For you to do it again.

EMMRICH: Show me.
Your fingers. Your sounds.
Make me feel it.

She sets the phone against her knees. Adjusts the lamp to a lower glow. Then presses record.

The video is breathy, soft, soaked in shadows and moans. Her body trembles. Her hand moves between her thighs, slow and sure, and his name breaks past her lips like a plea. She comes hard, shuddering, then stares directly at the camera.

She sends it.

ROOK: Don’t blink.

EMMRICH: I’m already unzipped. Already fucking leaking. And I haven’t even touched myself.

ROOK: You’re welcome.

EMMRICH: Tell me—was that the toy, or your fingers?

ROOK: Both. Had to work fast.
You’re not exactly easy to take my time with.

EMMRICH: If I were there, you wouldn’t be allowed to finish without permission.
I’d have you brought to the edge repeatedly, until you begged me to let you come with my name in your mouth and your thighs trembling around neck.

ROOK: You’d love that control, wouldn’t you?

Her fingers rest on the soft curve of her stomach, the damp heat between her thighs still throbbing in the aftermath of release. But it’s not enough. Not when he is still out there—on the other end of her screen, still typing, still wanting.

She can feel the sweat at the back of her neck cooling. Her chest rises and falls in slow, shallow waves. One leg is bent, foot tucked beneath the opposite thigh. She brushes her fingertips along the edge of her inner thigh, not teasing this time—just grounding herself.

The phone vibrates softly in her hand.

EMMRICH: Yes.
But I think you’d love giving it up even more.

Her stomach clenches.

ROOK: I might. For the right man.
One who knows how to make me beg without saying a word.

She sends it, then rolls onto her side, the pillow cradling her cheek. She can smell herself on her fingers—him too, somehow, like memory has a scent. Her mouth tingles at the thought of him undone again, trembling in her grip.

EMMRICH: I wouldn’t need to speak. Just a look. One hand tangled in your hair, the other on your throat—
and you’d know.

Her breath catches.

She closes her eyes and imagines it: that piercing stare, the weight of his palm at her neck, the subtle control. No pressure, not yet—but the promise of it. Her thighs instinctively squeeze together again, the sensitivity from earlier delicious.

ROOK: Tell me…

She licks her lips and adjusts her grip on the phone. Her free hand finds its way beneath her tank top again, thumb grazing the underside of her breast.

EMMRICH: I’d pin you down.
Watch your thighs tremble as you try not to come.
Drag it out until you’re gasping, sobbing, soaked and shaking.
Only then would I give the word.
Only then would I let you fall apart.

She exhales, shaky and soft. Her body answers every word—nipples tight, core pulsing again despite how spent she thought she was. She shifts again, this time lying half on her back, letting her hand trail lower. Just resting. Just waiting.

ROOK: You make surrender sound like worship.

She imagines him above her—fully dressed, composed on the surface, but with his mouth already parted and his pupils blown wide.

EMMRICH: With you, it would be.

The way her breath stutters betrays her. She stares at the words, heart pounding. Her fingers trail lower. She’s slick again. Already.

ROOK: Say it again.

The message sends. The dot blinks.

EMMRICH: You are my undoing, darling.
And I’ll worship every inch of you—
On my knees, with your taste still fresh on my tongue,
Or with your wrists bound to my headboard, your body arching for me.
But make no mistake.
I may worship you, and I will own.

Her body arches without conscious thought, toes curling into the mattress. There’s a fire behind her eyes and a storm beneath her skin.

ROOK: Yours, huh?

EMMRICH: Mine.
The way your thighs clench when I growl in your ear—mine.
The way you ache when I whisper your name—mine.
The way your voice breaks when you come, choking on my cock—mine.

She gasps. Her fingers find her again, sliding through the slick heat and pressing just so. She barely registers the next words before she’s already typing again, breathless.

ROOK: Then claim me. Properly. Because if you don’t—someone else might try.

And there it is. The taunt. The dare. Her heartbeat kicks up a notch.

The silence stretches. Her thumb hovers over the screen.

Then—
EMMRICH: I’d kill them. Don’t test me.

A wicked, satisfied grin pulled at her lips as she pressed two fingers harder against herself, teasing the edge.

ROOK: Good. Now go to sleep thinking about the way I moaned your name with my fingers inside me.
And dream of how much louder I’ll be when you finally fuck me.

Her body is already coiling again, ready for another round. But for now, she locks her screen, rests the phone beside her, and lets the ache of his words linger between her legs like the echo of a bruise.

——

Rook’s phone buzzed against the bedside table, the screen casting a faint glow into the early morning shadows of her bedroom. She stirred, groaning softly as her alarm buzzed underneath it—again. She was about to hit snooze for the second time when her sleep-heavy eyes caught a notification:

6:04 AM — 1 New Message from Emmrich Volkarin

She blinked. Sat up slowly, brushing her hair from her face. Her throat ached pleasantly as she sipped from her glass of water. With a slow drag of her thumb, she unlocked the screen.

EMMRICH: I dreamt about you. But not like I expected.
You were sitting across from me in a meeting—fully dressed, acting as if nothing happened.
You were calm. Composed.
While I could still feel your mouth around me.

I gave up on getting off last night… now that I’ve had your wicked mouth wrapped around me…
I don’t think anyone else’s touch will compare, even my own.

I hope you slept well, Miss Ingellvar.
And if not, I hope it was for the same reason I didn’t.

She exhaled a low laugh, her lips curling into a slow, smug smile. Her pulse quickened, and her thighs pressed together instinctively. He was spiralling—and she loved it.

Still half beneath the covers, she rolled onto her side, propping the phone against her pillow. Her fingers hovered over the screen, flexing once before she typed her reply.

ROOK: I was calm because I didn’t dream about you.
I didn’t need to. I’ve already had you in my hands… in my mouth… and swallowed everything you had to offer.
Some of us don’t need dreams, Professor.
We live it.

As the message was sent, she stretched her arms above her head, letting her tank top ride up, baring her stomach to the cool morning air. Her nipples pebbled beneath the thin cotton, sensitive again just from the memory of him shaking in her grip.

Another buzz.

EMMRICH: Careful, my dear girl.
We have an important meeting first thing this morning… I’d hate for either of us to be distracted.

But I can’t help wondering: you have the ability to make me hard with a flirtatious message.
What will happen when I see you in person again?

Will you smile like you always do, pretending you don’t feel me watching you?
Or will you slip past me in the hallway and whisper something that makes me think about bending you over my desk?

Her cheeks flushed, not from embarrassment, but from anticipation. She threw the covers off, bare legs swinging over the side of the bed, toes curling against the hardwood. The image he painted was so vivid she swore she could already feel the pressure of his body behind hers, the desk at her hips.

She bit her lower lip, then typed.

ROOK: If I see you in the hallway, I’ll pretend you’re just another colleague.
And if you brush past me on the stairs, I won’t flinch—

But I will be thinking about how your hands felt in my hair last night.
And how you warned me you were going to come… and I still didn’t stop.

Tell me, Professor… will you be able to look me in the eye without remembering how good I looked with your cock down my throat?

A deafening silence hung in the air after she sent the message. Rook padded toward the window, cracked it open, letting in the early chill. It did nothing to cool her down.

When her phone vibrated again, she snatched it up with a greedy flick of her wrist.

EMMRICH:
Miss Ingellvar,
Your insolence is noted.

So is the memory of your lips stretched wide around me, your throat swallowing everything I gave you.

I’ll see you in the office.
And when I do, you’ll be calm. Professional. Untouchable.

But I’ll know.

I’ll know what your mouth feels like when you’re desperate for me.
And you’ll know what kind of man it takes to make you crawl into his lap and ruin your lipstick.

Her throat tightened with a needy ache. Knees weakened slightly, and she leaned against the window frame, the morning wind biting at her skin. She stared down at the screen for a long moment, then tapped back, heart hammering.

ROOK: One question.

His reply came almost instantly.

EMMRICH: Name it, my dear girl.

ROOK: What is your favourite colour?

A pause.

EMMRICH: Lilac. Why?

Rook didn’t respond. She left him simmering in the dark silence of her unread status, his final message untouched—like a spark sealed in a glass jar. A wicked and warm smirk played on her lips.

Instead of engaging, she moved through her flat with quiet precision, the radio playing softly as she hummed along. Her makeup was flawless, giving her a natural look accentuated by a hint of rose on her lips, and her thick, straight hair cascaded down her back.

She began putting on her lingerie: black lace with lilac accents, delicate yet bold. The bra framed her cleavage with scalloped edges, while the matching thong sat softly and snugly against her hips. She rolled on her lace-topped, sheer stockings slowly, feeling as if her legs were holding secrets—those from the photo she had sent yesterday.

Turning to her wardrobe, she pulled out a dark green work dress. It was a size smaller than the dress she had worn the day before, but it was the right size for her now. The dress hugged her figure, cinching her waist as if it had been tailored just for her.

Not a single hair was out of place.

By the time she slipped into her heels and caught her reflection in the mirror, she was composed—every inch the professional.

Except for what was underneath.

Except for the fire she was still stoking, and if he thought she was dangerous in his car… just wait until he saw her in the boardroom.

Chapter Text

As Rook walked to work, the cool city air felt refreshing against her skin, and the sharp, precise click of her heels punctuated the rhythm of her steps on the pavement. She walked along, her bag slung over a shoulder, her phone nestled inside; yet, she resisted the urge to check for messages or notifications. Not for him. Not yet. She had left him unread. The notification bar at the top of her phone had told her enough.

Lilac.

Because her paid work hours didn’t start until 9 a.m., and she knew others would be there earlier, she planned to arrive later than usual. The mystery of what lay beneath her corporate attire, or the memory of his desperate, guttural sounds as he lost control, both ignited her.

And today, Rook felt like rebelling.

Entering the bank through the main doors, she moved with practised ease, swiping her badge and continuing on her way; her actions belying the morning spent planning a man’s downfall.

A constant hum of activity – conversations, printers, and phones – filled the building as the workday began. But Rook? She was like silent lightning. Upon entering her room, she remained standing. Placing her bag on the table, she removed what she needed—a simple notebook and a pen. During the meeting, she preferred the freehand note-taking method for recording minutes and topics of discussion; she found the constant tapping of her laptop keys to be quite disruptive to her concentration and the flow of the meeting. She was acutely aware of the new CEO’s strong inclination towards traditional paper documents and the opportunity she was going to use to her advantage.

Opting for the quiet solitude of the staff stairwell over the clamour and crowds of the main staircase, she ascended to the upper level. The green dress swayed with her slow, deliberate movements. The subtle sound of her stockings was her private secret. To a casual observer, it could appear that she was wearing tights. The point might not be apparent at first, but she intended for the big reveal to happen at just the right time. She wanted to see the dawning realisation in his eyes, the slow click as understanding dawned, and the subtle shift in his expression as the pieces fell into place.

By the time she reached the upper level and left the stairwell, several colleagues greeted her as they entered the break room. She returned their smiles—polite, distant. Her mind was already locked on the game ahead.

As she turned the corner toward the conference room, her pulse quickened, hammering against her ribs. The door stood propped open like the gaping mouth of a stage awaiting its lead. She drew a slow, steady breath—then stepped inside.

It wasn’t just a meeting room. It was a battlefield dressed in brushed steel and designer restraint. Every inch of the space had been curated for power: sleek leather chairs, a long obsidian table, and an atmosphere thick with quiet expectation.

“Morning, everyone.” Rook’s voice carried easily, her smile subtle and unreadable. She didn’t look at anyone in particular as she entered. She didn’t need to.

Because she felt it.

That unmistakable prickle at the nape of her neck—the kind of awareness that thrummed beneath the skin before the eyes ever confirmed it. The air shifted the moment she stepped over the threshold, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she moved around the table.

He was watching her.

Even without meeting his gaze, she felt it. Like a magnetic pull against the base of her spine. Like heat brushing the seam of her stockings. Every atom of her lit up under the pressure of his attention.

Emmrich Volkarin sat at the head of the table like a marble carving—still, sharp, and mercilessly composed. His posture was flawless, his movements restrained, hands resting lightly atop a leather folder in a portrait of control. But his eyes—

His eyes betrayed him.

Those hazel depths tracked her with a hunger so carefully leashed it felt like a threat. He drank her in: the sway of her hips, the set of her shoulders, the slight lift of her chin. She didn’t have to look to know. She sensed the slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze mapping her. From her mouth down to her hips and back up, weaving her into the fabric of the room as if her presence changed its gravity.

She had prepared for this.

A battle mage wrapped in civility, her power hidden beneath silk and polish. It pulsed beneath her skin, quiet but undeniable. Her green dress clung to her like a second skin, stopping just above the knee, striking that exquisite balance between professional and ruinous. Her lips were painted a shade of rose that edged toward defiant, and her hair cascaded over her shoulders in thick, dark waves.

Beneath it all, the stockings hugged tight to her thighs—a secret meant for him.

Rook slid smoothly into a seat midway down the table, directly opposite Varric. She adjusted herself against the cool, polished surface, every movement unhurried, poised. As she opened her notebook and laid her pen beside it, she wondered when he would find out.

How would he find out?

A private smirk tugged at her mouth.

Further down the table, Lucanis and Davrin exchanged lighthearted banter, masking tension with easy charm. At the far end of the table, Johanna scowled at her screen as if it had insulted her. To her left and towards the head of the table, Vorgoth muffled a yawn into his hand, and Myrna’s fingers tapped rhythmically across her tablet, indifferent to the current in the room.

But he was not indifferent.

She finally allowed herself to glance his way.

Emmrich’s jaw had clenched, and his throat moved in a quick, tight swallow—too fast, too sharp—a fissure in the mask.

Good, she thought.
Let him feel it.

She turned back to her notes, her spine tall and shoulders set, every inch composed. His silence stretched for a fraction too long.

Then, finally—
He spoke.

“Let’s begin,” he stated evenly, though there was an intensity just beneath the surface of his words.

The meeting commenced with Myrna delivering an operations update, her tone precise and clipped, like a surgical instrument. Vorgoth followed suit with security statistics, his comments punctuated by nonchalant grunts. Lucanis contributed a half-serious observation about digital compliance, while Davrin, showing his usual bravado, stealthily snatched a biscuit from the communal plate.

As the discussions flowed, Rook slowly uncrossed her legs, moving with purpose, and leaned forward to jot down a note, angling herself to face more towards Emmrich, and in the seconds that followed, she felt a subtle shift in him.

It was the kind of movement that was imperceptible to most — no sound accompanied it, but she was acutely aware of the way his attention had sharpened. His fingers grazed the leather folder once, a nervous rhythm, as he blinked too slowly for someone amid a meeting. He adjusted himself in his seat, almost imperceptibly, like his tailored trousers had suddenly become constricting.

He was trying to pretend he wasn’t aware of her.

And he was failing.

Rook bit her lip and wrote in her looped writing as she made notes.

I wonder if he’s hard?

With precision, she adjusted her own posture again. A deliberate crossing of her legs allowed the whisper of her stockings against her skin to create a faint yet intentional sound, and she pulled down the hem of her dress. That was the mistake that revealed her, the undoing of Emmrich Volkarin.

Rook moved her notepad with a bit more force than intended, and the pen nestled atop rolled to the floor. A minor act, innocently unplanned, mostly. She tutted and leaned, stretching away from him, to reach and pick up the pen, seamlessly integrating the action into the flow of the meeting. However, her dress hiked up just enough to show a glimpse of the pretty lace underneath the green fabric, drawing his keen eyes.

She didn’t look up.

She didn’t need to.

She heard the subtle crack of restraint breaking.

A breath caught, then swallowed too late. A chair leg shifted ominously. The glass of water he held creaked under his grip as he repositioned it pointlessly.

He had watched her bend; he was still watching her.

When Rook finally straightened, she allowed her gaze to drift, steering away from her pen and the others seated around the table.

Instead, she looked right at him.

Emmrich Volkarin was already looking at her.

His eyes locked with hers—unblinking, burning, pupils blown wide with something dark and unspoken. There was nothing passive in his stare; it was deliberate, razor-sharp. Then, without shame or subtlety, his gaze dipped. It dragged down the line of her body: the arch of her collarbone, the swell of her large breasts, the way the green fabric clung, leaving little to the shape of her to the imagination. When his eyes returned to hers, they said everything his mouth wouldn’t.

I saw.

He shifted the folder, clearing his throat as if to regain his composure. “Thank you, Johanna. We’ll move to compliance risk now,” he announced, his voice tight and brittle.

Rook felt a rush of triumph.

But she didn’t press her advantage just yet.

She allowed silence to hang in the air, waiting for the right moment.

Johanna resumed talking — her voice now muddled with procedural updates and the banalities of internal forms. Emmrich remained focused on his notes, the stillness hanging over him like a cloak. But as Rook sat there, she could feel the weight of his presence across the room, as palpable as a loaded weapon resting in plain sight.

It was aimed at her, not fired.

Not yet.

Rook clasped her hands together elegantly and cleared her throat, preparing to intervene. “If I may,” she interjected, her voice light yet assured.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

Even Johanna halted mid-sentence, her mouth closing abruptly, the sound reminiscent of a file drawer snapping shut, her face scowling.

Emmrich didn’t interrupt her. He didn’t nod his acknowledgement, either.

Instead, he looked up.

Waiting, his eyes on her mouth as the younger woman spoke.

“I’ve reviewed the current model,” Rook continued smoothly, “and while the allocation is technically sound, it fails to reflect the reality of our workflow. We’re still operating under the pretence of the old structure — people inevitably take shortcuts simply out of habit.” A brief pause ensued, allowing her words to sink in. “We need to rethink the layout, encouraging not only movement but also transparency in intent. Make it dynamic. Easier to follow, for the customer and staff.”

Myrna and Vorgoth nodded appreciatively, tapping notes as they both absorbed Rook’s insights.

Lucanis murmured, “Interesting…”

Darvin nodded as if understanding.

Johanna squinted, as if grappling to decipher something written in a foreign language.

Varric looked at her proudly from across the table.

But Emmrich?

All his attention was on her.

Not as a manager, nor as a man evaluating reports.

With his head tilted slightly, his hands lay perfectly still on the folder in front of him. He wasn’t assessing data; he was absorbing every inch of her intellect, his arousal growing once more, he stealthily shifted in his chair.

Rook, aware of his attention, turned her line of sight to him and as she honed in on her point.

“If you desire people to navigate seamlessly through a space,” Rook continued, “you must ensure they aren’t hiding anything. No clutter. No secrets. No distractions.”

That last word resonated in the air like a drop of poison, lingering in the atmosphere.

Distractions.

Her gaze flicked to the way he hunched forward and clutched at the folder. Then it returned to her audience, her voice steady.

And with the faintest trace of a smile, she added, “Though… sometimes, the right kind of distraction can work wonders.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Lucanis barked out a robust laugh. Davrin grinned, subtly mouthing, “Damn.”

Even Vorgoth wore a smirk.

Emmrich’s smile was genuine, his hazel eyes sparkling as he looked at her, making her feel like the only person in the world. A slow, quiet sigh escaped him, carrying a subtle yet intense pain that spoke of inner turmoil. He looked like he’d swallowed something dangerous and alive. His eyes returned to her mouth, a spark of recollection lighting them up. The taste of her lips and the warmth of their moments together flooded back to him, now forever a part of their history.

After her moment of revelation, she fell into a profound silence, a stillness that enveloped her like an invisible shroud. For the remainder of the meeting, she found no need to voice her thoughts; the weight of her quiet was more expressive than any words she could have uttered. Time crawled as the agenda dragged on, flowing from one topic to the next. Davrin outlined an intricately devised outreach strategy, his hands animated as he illustrated points on the whiteboard, while Lucanis attempted to lighten the atmosphere with half-hearted jokes. One’s that landed with a soft thud, as laughter was scarcely shared. Even Johanna, wearing a determined expression, mustered the energy for a final, insistent point but was met with hollow responses.

But Emmrich… he had receded into a different realm.

His contributions were minimal, reduced to the bare essentials; each word emerged from his lips almost like an artillery shot—intentional, measured, and defensive. A shift in his tone hinted at underlying unrest. His posture betrayed his inner struggle—shoulders rigid, chin slightly lifted, and his slender fingers tightly wrapped around a glass that remained untouched, misted with the condensation of a drink he had no intention of sampling. It was evident he was in the midst of recalibrating himself, struggling to grapple control and don the mask of an imposing millionaire and CEO.

As the meeting drew to a close, the sound of moving chairs filled the air, blending with the rising tide of polite conversation that filled the room like a static hum. Rook stood gracefully, smoothing the fabric of her dress, an instinctive gesture that betrayed her composure. For a brief, electric moment, Emmrich’s gaze snapped to her; it was a fleeting look, one he couldn’t retract in time. But by then, it was far too late. She turned her back to him, resolute and determined not to cast her gaze over her shoulder. Notebook tucked under her arm.

At the door, Rook lingered beside Varric, who was animatedly muttering about the broken scanner, his brow knit in frustration.

“I’ll head down,” she chimed in lightly, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. “I need to sort a few things before my desk floods.”

“We have another meeting this morning, kid. I’ll check the times with the boss and let you know.”

Rook allowed a small, almost wistful smile to grace her lips, took one more step forward, and turned down the hallway.

Rather than join the others on the main stairs, she took the rarely used back stairs. The quiet path was a welcome relief after the tense and heated meeting. Soft, diffused lighting replaced the harsh overhead lights, creating an intimate atmosphere. She didn’t glance back; she didn’t need to, for the heat coiling down her spine was an unambiguous signal. His pursuit, she knew, was inevitable.

***

Only a hushed echo of the distant office and the hum of lights above reached the stairwell, dampened by the concrete walls and pervasive quiet. Rook reached the landing and paused, one hand resting lightly on the metal railing. Footsteps echoed behind her. They were neither hurried nor loud. Their actions were controlled.

She didn’t turn around.

She didn’t have to.

Rook felt a shift in the air pressure behind her, the faint scuff of leather soles against concrete, and the way her skin prickled just before his voice reached her.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice,” Emmrich murmured, voice dark and curling like smoke around her ear, low, amused, dangerous. “The smirk. The stockings. That little performance at the table when you bent to pick up your pen.”

His hand brushed down her side, fingers skimming her waist like he owned every inch of it.

“You wanted me to look, didn’t you?” he whispered. “You knew I would. You counted on it.”

With a slight turn of her head, she met his gaze over her shoulder. “I didn’t do anything,” she replied coolly.

“Didn’t you?” He moved suddenly and swiftly, catching her off guard. One of his hands slammed against the wall beside her head, while the other curled around her hip, forcibly spinning her to face him. Caught by surprise, she gasped as her back hit the wall. “You wore them.”

Before she had a chance to catch her breath, he positioned his thigh between her legs, pressing firmly against her and effectively pinning her in place. The hem of her dress, perhaps too short to begin with, climbed higher with the erratic movement. Reacting instinctively, her hands immediately went to his chest, a move she instantly regretted making.

A subtle shift in her posture gave him permission to press closer.

His mouth hovered just above hers, the warmth of his breath a tantalising caress.

“You wore those stockings on purpose,” he murmured, his gaze intense, the silk of her stockings shimmering under his burning stare. “The same ones from the photo. You knew exactly what you were doing.” His eyes glowered at her breasts. Hungry, a man starved. “That dress is smaller than yesterday’s.”

She tilted her chin up. “Didn’t realise I’d be measured this morning.”

He chuckled softly — not with amusement, but with something darker. Something patient and indulgent.

“I’ve been measuring you all week, my dear girl.”

With a barely perceptible movement, she pulled back, giving him just enough space to press his thigh higher between her legs.

She froze.

A mistake.

The pressure landed squarely against her centre, the friction brutal and perfect. Her breath hitched, eyes widening as her hips jerked forward in a sudden, helpless grind.

Emmrich’s eyes went dark, a wicked, broken smile twisting his lips—a smug satisfaction.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice like velvet dragging over glass. “You liked that, did you, my dear?”

Instinct betrayed her. Her body rocked forward again, needier this time, frantic for contact. The hard muscle of his thigh flexed, unforgiving beneath her. He pulled the fabric of her dress higher, the lace of her stockings dragging across her skin with maddening friction.

And that was when he moved.

His thigh surged up—slow, steady, deliberate. A grinding pressure that left no room for denial. It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a tease.

It was a claim.

His hand found her hip again, anchoring her. His breath curled at her neck — warm, humid, close enough to raise goosebumps along her collarbone. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed her there — the edge of her jaw, the soft skin beneath her ear.

“You’ve been sitting there this past hour,” he confided, his lips brushing her as he spoke. “In those stockings. No idea how precarious it’s made me.” Rook shuddered. His voice was velvet, soaked in heat and control, and each word vibrated through her chest, and he rocked her. “And all the while, it made you desperate, too.”

And then he kissed her.

Not gentle. Not soft.

He devoured her, heat and teeth and tongue. One hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip so tight she was sure it would leave bruises—a ripple down her spine at the thought of being marked by him.

Try as she might, she didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to play into his large hands as a needy, desperate little thing. But it was too late. She was already moving against him, and he was guiding her, grinding her down onto his thigh with slow, devastating pressure.

“Look at you,” he breathed against her mouth. “Already a mess and I’ve barely begun. You think you’re so clever,” he whispered, letting his teeth graze her throat. “Bending over like that. Letting me see the lace. You knew exactly what you were doing.” Her hips rolled against his leg, unthinking. Uncontrolled. She couldn’t stop herself. His leg flexed, perfectly angled. “…this is what you needed, isn’t it?”

She whimpered—barely—but it made him groan, low and rough.

“Oh, darling…” His voice dropped even lower. “Maker, Ivy. I can feel you through my trousers. Your soaked. Do you know what that does to me?”

Her breath hitched. His mouth dragged down her neck, teeth catching below her ear.

“So fucking wet,” he growled. “I bet you’ve been like this all morning. From the moment you decided what you were going to wear under your dress. Sitting across from me like the model employee, dripping into your pretty little knickers. Soaked.” A dark, dangerous chuckle. “You’ve ruined them, darling. And all from this? My thigh pressing, right… There?” She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her moan. “Don’t you dare.” Emmrich hissed and pulled her hand, placing it on his shoulder.

“I could fuck you right here with just my thigh,” he whispered into her ear, the words sending a shiver down her spine. “Would you let me? Let me watch you grind yourself raw for it?”

She whimpered — an actual, involuntary sound. She could feel her pulse between her legs, building fast.

“Mmm. That sound,” he murmured. “That little broken noise. My new favourite music. I will live for that, every damn day.”

Another roll of her hips. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her hands gripped his shoulders now, holding on.

Emmrich‘s mouth found her neck again, teeth nipping this time, tongue soothing after. “I want to hear you fall apart,” he breathed. “On me. For me. Like you were made for this.”

She moaned into his collar, her legs trembling. Head tipped back against the wall with a soft, broken sound.

“That’s it,” he murmured, hand sliding lower down her back, pressing into the small of her back to coax her, moving her harder against his leg. “That’s my good girl.”

Her hands clawed into his suit jacket for balance as he guided her—pressure, rhythm, the unbearable tension winding tight in her core.

His mouth never stopped as he uttered in her ear.

“You’ve driven me mad since the moment I saw you.”

“Look at you now, trembling on my thigh. So fucking desperate.”

“You wanted to tease me?”

“Then come for me, Ivy.”

His voice was low, guttural, just behind her ear. Possessively, his hand slid lower, pulling her harder against him, splaying across the curve of her ass. His thigh flexed again—up and in—grinding against her soaked, aching centre with merciless precision.

She choked on a moan, the sound raw and desperate. Her thighs trembled. Her hips bucked.

And then she broke.

The orgasm ripped through her, savage and unstoppable. Her body spasmed against him, grinding down hard on his thigh as her clit throbbed and she clenched around nothing. She was panting into his neck, gasping his name like a prayer laced with filth, her mouth open against his skin as she rode out every last pulse.

He held her through it—tight, steady, owning her.

One hand tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to remind her who she belonged to, while the other ran down her back, then lower, fingers skimming under the hem of her dress to stroke the soaked lace clinging to her cunt.

“Look at you,” he whispered, mouth curved against her ear. “You came all over my thigh, didn’t you?”

She whimpered, still shaking, her legs weak, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

“Such a good girl,” he purred. “My perfect little mess.”

He pressed his fingers more firmly to the damp heat between her legs, stroking slow, teasing circles over the ruined lace, smearing her arousal across the fabric. Her knees nearly gave out.

“There’s my girl.”

Only when her shudders eased did he slowly lower his thigh—drawing out the friction as long as he could—but he didn’t step back.

No.

He moved closer.

And she felt it.

The blunt, unmistakable press of his cock, hard and aching, grinding deliberately against the front of her hip. Thick. Heavy. Demanding.

The contact wasn’t accidental. It was a message.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her lashes fluttered as her eyes flew wide, the sensation sparking heat straight down her vertebrae. She could feel the size of him even through the fine, expensive fabric of his trousers—hot and unrelenting, like he was daring her to acknowledge it.

And then his mouth was at her ear again.

Low. Lethal. Velvet-laced filth.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough as gravel dragged through silk. “Darling, that’s what you did to me.”

His hips rolled forward once—just enough to make her gasp, her body instinctively pressing back into him, the soaked lace between her thighs still pulsing.

“I should bend you over against this wall,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath hot. “Shove your panties aside and fuck you until you can’t stand straight. Until you forget your own name—except for mine.”

“I know you feel it. I know you want it,” he whispered against her lips, before nipping her lower lip. “See what you do to my composure,” he whispered, the words vibrating against her skin. “Look at the fucking state of me, my dear.”

He pressed in just a little more, hips grinding slowly and subtly, enough to make her feel every inch of what she’d done to him. Her breath hitched.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about your mouth since last night,” he murmured, nose brushing her hairline. “But this—” he nudged against her again, rougher this time “—“That’s what you do to me, Ivy,” he murmured. “That’s how hard you make me. Just from watching you walk into a room. Just from hearing you breathe.”

His breath ghosted over the damp skin of her throat, and goosebumps rippled across her entire body.

“You’re going to come to me later,” he whispered, each syllable dragging across the shell of her ear. “You’re going to show me what else you’re hiding under this pretty little dress… and then you’re going to kneel.”

Rook couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Her body buzzed with sensation, her thighs slick, her heart trying to hammer its way free from her ribs.

And then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.

He straightened his cuffs, exhaled once, and steadied himself. The only trace of his unravelling was the slight flush to his throat and the slow, measured rise of his chest.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t have to.

His voice was light, dangerous.

“Fix your dress, Miss Ingellvar,” he said. “You’re expected downstairs.”

Then he turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost reverent quiet.

Rook stood alone, breathless, wrecked, pulse thudding in places she didn’t know had a beat.

And she was completely soaked.

***

Rook had taken several long minutes before leaving the staircase. She needed them. Time to collect herself, to breathe past the lingering tremors in her thighs, the raw echo of his voice in her ear. She leaned one hand against the wall, steadying her balance until she was confident her legs would carry her without giving her away. Only then did she begin the slow descent down the stairwell, each step careful, her expression blank—composed—but her body still humming from everything he’d just done.

By the time she reached her office and closed the door behind her, she exhaled sharply—finally alone.

She crossed the room and snatched up her water bottle with a hand that trembled just slightly; the cap clicking open with a soft pop. She drank deep, letting the coolness ease the heat in her throat. But nothing could touch the heat between her legs, slick and unmistakable against the ruined lace now clinging to her.

Discomfort turned quickly into distraction.

With a quiet, irritated sigh, she stepped out of her heels and slipped her hand up under her dress. The fabric of her soaked underwear clung as she peeled them down her thighs, damp and unwearable. She balled them up tightly and, without hesitation, tucked them into the side pocket of her handbag—out of sight, but not out of mind. The ghost of friction still tingled across her skin.

She grabbed a cleansing wipe from her drawer and disappeared briefly into the small adjoining washroom. A soft gasp escaped her lips as the cool cloth met her overheated flesh. She dabbed carefully, methodically, her expression neutral even as her mind replayed every filthy word he had whispered against her ear.

When she returned to her desk, she didn’t sit right away. Instead, she paused before the mirror mounted against the wall opposite the door. Her reflection stared back: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, a look far too undone for someone meant to be at work.

Rook brushed her hair, fingers threading through the waves to smooth them back into place. A fresh swipe of lipstick—calmer this time, something soft and unassuming. She reapplied a hint of powder to mask the glow on her skin.

Only when her reflection looked like Rook again—collected, professional, untouchable—did she sit at her desk, back straight, expression cool.

But inside?

Inside, she was still throbbing as she reached for her phone.

FadeApp

ROOK: You’re insane. I had to wait for my legs to stop shaking before I could move. At one point, I thought my knees were going to give out.

EMMRICH : The way you came apart on my thigh… The noises you made…And you still haven’t paid for the torment of me having to sit through that meeting with nothing but the thought of your thighs embraced by lace.

ROOK: Maybe I wanted to see what would happen. You didn’t disappoint. But now I’m wet again, and this time there’s no wall or thigh in sight.
You’ve created a problem.
Fix it.

EMMRICH: My dear girl. I intend to. But I’ll be choosing the time, the place, and the way you fall apart next.
And trust me—next time, there will be no thigh.

EMMRICH: You never replied to my earlier message. Lilac, Ivy? Why the interest?

ROOK: You will have to wait and find out. Now please give me some peace, I am trying to work, and my CEO still has to decide my worth and if I am capable of handling ‘big loads’ of work.

It wasn’t even five minutes later when an email with a calendar notification popped up.

Meeting: Emmrich / Varric — CEO Office. 11:00 AM.

Anticipation, not nerves, caused Rook’s heart to beat faster as she rose and smoothed her dress. She knew the game they were playing, and if he thought bringing Varric into the room would cool the fire between them, he was mistaken.

Giving her reflection a once-over in the mirror before leaving the room, Rook hesitated, just for a breath. Then she did something she hadn’t needed to in a long time.

She slipped her hands down the front of her dress, palms brushing the smooth fabric, and lifted her breasts until the neckline dipped just right — until the soft swell of cleavage curved high and unapologetic, impossible to miss. A slight, knowing smirk touched her lips. There. Let him try to ignore that.

With a flick of her fingers, she ran her hands through her hair, tousling it slightly to add volume, like she’d just come undone and hadn’t bothered to hide it. The effect was messy in a way that made men stare and women look twice. She hooked her bag over one shoulder, cast a final glance at herself — not to check, but to affirm.

Rook arrived at his office at 10:57 and then knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Emmrich’s voice commanded, and Rook went in, her heart in her throat.

In front of the unlit fireplace, Varric sat on a sofa. To her, it seemed less a display and more of an assertion. His smile offered her a glimmer of relief.

Emmrich stood calmly by the window, hands clasped behind his back, overlooking the sprawling city.

“Hey, kid. Have a seat,” Varric offered encouragingly. As she sat opposite him, Rook felt her shoulders relax a little.

“We understand you’re eager to hear the news, so we’ll reveal everything without further delay.” Emmrich turned to face her, and when their eyes met, she saw it. That flicker. That heat. That hunger, and she knew he was still burning underneath. Making his way across the room, he moved to sit on the same side as Varric, his hand deftly picking up a file along the way. “Your job position is safe.”

He spoke as if it were the most ordinary thing, implying her future had been decided before Tuesday’s interview.

Rook remained silent, her gaze shifting to Varric, whose brow furrowed. For once, she found him impossible to understand.

“I would like to bring a new contract to your attention.” Leaning forward, Emmrich gave her a file. With hesitation, she took it, her gaze averted as she held it securely in both hands. “Your continued presence at the company would be greatly valued.” Emmrich’s voice dropped, his eye shifting as he was now trying to assess her and her line of thought.

“I appreciate the offer.” A forced smile touched her lips, but he saw the lack of genuine happiness in her eyes. A change came over his features as he tilted his head, appraising her.

“Kid?” Varric was the one to press.

“As I mentioned during our last meeting, Emmrich. The success of my career here depended entirely on my future manager.”

The silence between them thickened, heavy with unspoken things. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, the pose deliberate, composed, but she didn’t miss the subtle shift in his gaze. His hazel eyes dropped, lingering at the dip of her neckline, and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm.

“It remains unannounced whether Varric or Johanna will be selected.”

“Then I find myself at a crossroads.” Rook drummed her fingers on the file, biting her lip.

Varric turned to look at Emmrich, “Told you. She’s as stubborn as a nug.”

Emmrich regarded her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face — not quite a smirk, not quite a scowl. Just that unsettling stillness he wore when thoughts ran deep and emotions ran deeper. His gaze lingered on her with that sharp, unwavering focus she had come to know — the kind that made her feel like he could peel back her layers without ever touching her.

And then, at last, he spoke.

“Would it please you to know that it would be me?”

His voice was soft, but it landed like a strike — low, deliberate, curling at the edges with meaning. He didn’t blink. He didn’t look away. He just let the words hang between them, heavy and electric, like a fuse lit but not yet touched to flame and Rook’s face dropped.

“Are you not being kept on?” But this time, she was addressing Varric directly.

Emmrich smirked, and in that moment, Varric winked at her. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Emmrich stood and moved behind the sofa, palms resting on the leather, gaze flicking between the file in Rook’s hand and her face.

“He’d be a fool to let you go,” Rook smirked.

“I concur,” Emmrich interjected, his laughter joining theirs. “With either of you. The workload you both manage is truly impressive. Once all of this settles down, I will take the time to discuss alternative avenues for your growth with the company.”

“Keep it quiet, though, kid. Johanna won’t be told until later this afternoon.”

“I wish I could be a fly on the wall when that conversation goes down,” Rook murmured, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

Varric chuckled under his breath as he settled into the seat beside her. He flipped open the file folder and pulled out the new contract, laying it between them with a quiet sense of finality. With his pen, he marked the key updates — her revised salary, the shift in reporting lines, her new title. The words blurred slightly at the edges, but only because it was sinking in: everything was better. Everything was finally turning around.

Yet, every so often — when Varric wasn’t looking — her eyes would find him. And every time they did, Rook saw that he was watching her intently. Eyes souldering. The tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked ever so slightly as if he were grinding back everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to do.

She kept her posture perfect, poised, professional, as if she didn’t notice. But inside, the satisfaction thrummed through her.

Varric droned on about the amendments to her contract, unaware of the storm in the room. Emmrich finally stopped pacing and sat back on the sofa, legs stretched out beneath the coffee table. But she saw it — the way his hands tightened, the way his thumb tapped against his lip once, slow and deliberate, as if imagining her there instead.

“I must say, my dear, your silence is creating suspense for both of us. Is further time needed for your consideration of the contract? I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.” There was a softness in the way he spoke, a genuine undercurrent of care coating his words. Nevertheless, Rook understood he was in anticipation of her answer. He knew it would be difficult to influence her. In secret, though, he revelled in it.

She settled back, crossed her legs, and paid no attention to the lace at her thigh. Emmrich’s gaze shifted as she read, and she felt it. Following a period of quiet reflection, she went to Emmrich’s desk, opened the file, and signed it with his fancy pen.

A line indicating a space that needed his signature was found underneath the text.

“This is bittersweet, Rook. You will still be here, but you won’t be under my direct responsibility. Or my constant source of trouble,” Varric quipped, rising from the settee with a playful smirk. “Seriously, kid, I’m proud of you. Now, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of your new boss.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and silence blanketed the space they occupied. It was a silence that felt heavy, almost charged with the unspoken tension that simmered between Rook and Emmrich. He stood and came to stand beside her, taking the pen she offered, his own golden pen, and he leaned to sign his own name on the dotted line.

Emmrich let the silence linger. He sat back in his chair, his keen hazel eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her hyper-aware of his every gesture – the light drumming of his fingers, the subtle clenching of his jaw as he plotted his next move. He was wound so tight, his restraint felt like a wire about to snap. He finally, with painstaking slowness, selected a single sheet of paper from his files. Folding the item neatly, like a precious gift.

“Now, there’s the matter of your pay structure, Rook,” Emmrich said, his voice shifting into something smooth and businesslike, measured, yet unmistakably authoritative. He adjusted the sheet in front of him with a careful hand, preparing to lay out the specifics.

“I’d like to negotiate this with you directly. The changes involve a formal shift in responsibilities, though truthfully, it’s work you’ve already been handling consistently, and without complaint. When Varric becomes the branch manager, you will become the next in line. And when the time comes, you’ll transition onto my team at the new head office, which will see FBC integrated into Volbank’s operations.”

Rook accepted the sheet he offered, her brow furrowing as her eyes scanned the clean rows of figures. The numbers didn’t feel real.

“This will be your new salary, effective immediately,” Emmrich continued. “It includes back pay for the work you’ve already done. Your account will receive the compensation amount by midday tomorrow.”

It was a substantial sum — generous to the point of extravagance. More than generous, in fact. It conveyed a message that went beyond mere numbers, something far more intimate and profound. It was a declaration of recognition: I see you. I value you. I want to keep you close.

“You deserve this,” he said, his gaze unwavering, dark, and inscrutable, yet burning with an intensity that quickened her pulse.

But Rook’s mind was spinning now as she examined the figure, confusion knitting her brows together. What had initially stirred a flicker of satisfaction inside her now gave way to something sharper, a piercing realisation that cut through the surface. She lifted her gaze, meeting his steady stare with unwavering defiance.

“This can’t be right. This is too much,” she asserted, her voice low and even. There was no coyness in her tone, no clever games—just the raw truth, as she perceived it. “I don’t need this to prove anything. I don’t want it handed to me.” She slid the sheet back across his desk and turned her back to him. Wrapping her arms around herself, she shook her head.

Emmrich remained steadfast, not flinching or looking away. A tightening jaw muscle, flared nostrils hinting at a touched nerve, and a surfacing deeper emotional current beneath his calm exterior betrayed his composed facade. He stood slowly, purposely, moving around the desk to lean against it with an air of quiet authority. The physical distance between them lessened, but the atmosphere shifted from charged heat to something more profound. This was not about the attraction simmering beneath the surface; this was about Rook herself, about what Emmrich perceived, that perhaps she had yet to recognise.

“Ivy,” he said, his voice dropping to a quieter, more intimate tone that carried a weight of its own, like steel cloaked in velvet. “This isn’t charity. And it’s not a game. You’ve truly earned this.” He reached out to turn her, and she shook her head, her fire unyielding, that fierce defiance simmering in her eyes, a resolute force that drove him to the brink of frustration, yet simultaneously ignited an undeniable yearning within him.

“You don’t have to buy me, Emmrich. You don’t have to—”

“I’m not buying you,” he interrupted, his voice resolute, leaving no room for argument. “Most people would do anything to have your potential. Your sharp eye catches what others ignore; you foresee the unfolding events. You deserve every penny and more; anything less would be an insult.”

Emmrich’s hazel eyes held hers, this time not with lust, but with unflinching certainty and conviction. “You think I would risk my reputation by backing someone who wasn’t up to the task? I don’t do favours, my dear.” The silence lingered, heavy with unspoken meaning, his voice gentler but his resolve unwavering. “I’m paying you what you’re worth. Take it. Because this is just the beginning.”

Rook held his gaze, her breath coming in shallow gasps, the paper trembling slightly in her fingers. Deep down, she wanted to respond, to break the charged silence that enveloped them. But the weight of his words, heavy with undeniable conviction, froze the remark on her tongue.

That realisation began to unravel her more than any dark promise ever could.

“You really think I’m worth that?” she asked, her voice now softer, the defiance laced with a tinge of vulnerability. She needed to hear it, even if admitting that need terrified her.

Emmrich remained motionless, his expression serious, devoid of any playful smirk. He studied her as though he could peer directly through every wall she had ever erected around her heart.

“I think you have no idea how dangerous you could be,” he replied, his voice low and resonant. It was a tone that transcended mere heat; it held profound truth, “and I think that scares you more than it should.”

The room felt overwhelmingly confined, an electric tension that neither of them could articulate. Though his hands remained beside him on the desk, his body leaned subtly toward her, a silent invitation that stirred something deep within her.

Then, unexpectedly, Emmrich reached out. Not to touch her, but to reclaim the paper. He folded it with meticulous precision, each motion deliberate and controlled, before setting it on the desk.

“Go do something with it,” he urged, his tone imbued with challenge. “Make me regret not offering you more.”

Then, with a slight quirk of his lips, a teasing hint of a challenge danced in his eyes. He walked back around the desk with a measured pace and settled into his chair, the mask of professionalism slipping seamlessly back into place. Yet, in the depths of his gaze, a promise lingered: this wasn’t over. Not the payment, not the game, and certainly not between them.

The weight of his words felt overwhelming. They scraped too close to the hidden places within her—those whispers that echoed not enough, never enough. And now here he was, throwing money at her, insisting she was worth it, that she had potential—acting as if he knew her, as if he could see her.

She flicked, too suddenly, and the quick movement made her head spin.

“Don’t patronise me, Emmrich. I don’t need you to pretend I’m good enough. I don’t need you to—” The quick movement of her walking away to pick up her bag. Her voice cracked, and she hated it, despising how it revealed the suffering she didn’t want him to see. She turned toward the door, desperate for distance, desperate for air.

But she didn’t make it.

Before she could reach for the handle, he was there—faster than she could have imagined—closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His hand caught her arm, firm but not harsh, and he turned her, backing her against the door.

Then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t careful. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire and fury, the dam breaking, the restraint shattered. His hand cupped her jaw, his body caging hers, the heat of him sinking into her skin. He kissed her like he was starving, like he had been holding back for too long, like this was the only way left to communicate.

And Rook—she let herself burn in it. She allowed herself to feel the rawness, the truth, the wild, desperate need that neither of them could articulate. Her bag fell to the floor as she kissed him back, wild and passionate, her fingers clenching his shirt, pulling him in.

When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathless, hearts pounding.

“You are good enough,” he said, his voice rough and wrecked. “More than good enough. And I’m done letting you pretend otherwise.”

Rook’s breath came fast, her chest rising and falling against his. His words echoed in her head, cutting through the storm inside her: More than good enough. And for a heartbeat, for one raw second, she almost believed him.

But the fire in her wouldn’t let her surrender that easily.

Her fingers twisted tighter in his shirt, pulling him even closer, their bodies flush, no space left between them. Her voice was low, dangerous, trembling not with fear but with the force of what she felt.

“Then prove it,” she breathed. “Don’t just say it. Show me.”

And that undid him.

Emmrich growled low in his throat — the sound of a man pushed past his limit, past reason. His mouth crashed down on hers again, but this time it was deeper, slower, fiercer. His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones like he needed to memorise her, like this was more than want — this was need.

The kiss seared through her, all the defiance and ache, and desire tangled together. She felt the control in him fray further with every heartbeat, felt the truth of it in the way he kissed her like he was trying to stake a claim, to carve his mark beneath her skin.

And still, somehow, he held himself back from going too far. His body shook with restraint, his breath ragged against her lips when he finally broke away just enough to speak.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said, voice shattered, his forehead still pressed to hers. “If I show you, if I really show you, I’m not going to stop.”

Rook’s lips curved in a small, dark smile, her pulse thundering in her veins.

“Good,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t want you to stop.”

For a long moment, he just looked at her, as if weighing everything, as if searching for the last thread of control. But it was already gone. Between them, it always had been.

“Where have you been all my life?” His mouth found hers again, slower now, deeper, his hands sliding down to her waist, pulling her tight against him. The kiss was a promise, a warning, a surrender. And the world beyond that office — the rules, the titles, the consequences — disappeared into the dark, heady heat of what they’d unleashed.

His gaze pinned her where she stood — no smile, no warmth, just a flicker of something far darker. She felt it hit low, felt it bloom between her thighs like heat licking at the edges of restraint. The corner of his mouth curved, not with humour, but with certainty. She’d asked. And now, she was going to find out exactly what that meant.

His hand stayed at her throat for a moment longer, not choking, not hurting — just holding and just claiming. She felt the weight of his palm, the measured pressure, the way his thumb shifted slightly to feel the fluttering pulse at her neck, the defiant thrum that gave her away.

He was reading her like scripture. And worse — he liked what he found.

Then that hand moved. Downward. Slow. Intentional. The drag of it over her skin, even through her dress, made her body tighten with anticipation. He wasn’t in a rush. He was taking his time because he could.

His other hand found her hip — gripped it like he owned it. Like she belonged there, pressed into him. His fingers flexed, dragging her forward until her body collided with the hard ridge of his arousal, and she bit back a gasp. He was ready for her. Hungry. Barely held in check.

“You want to know what I’ll do?” he murmured, voice low, the words ghosting across her ear like smoke. “I’ll take what’s mine.”

And then his hand was beneath the hem of her dress.

His fingers brushed the lace of her stockings at her thigh — a slow, reverent touch. The same lace from the photo. From that morning. Burned into his memory.

And then his hand slid higher.

Much higher.

And stopped.

He went still.

So did she.

There was no barrier to meet him. No tiny triangle of lace. No thin strip of silk. Just bare skin. Heat. Her.

For a moment, neither of them breathed. She saw the moment he recognised it.

Then she felt it — a growl, low and feral, more vibration than sound, deep in his chest.

“You filthy, filthy girl,” he hissed in her ear, and there was no restraint now—just possession.

His hand curved between her thighs, and she parted them for him automatically — shameless, aching, ready. Her breath hitched as his fingers found her, slick and open, and his grip at her hip tightened with a bruising force.

“No knickers,” he murmured, voice edged with dark delight. “You’ve been walking around since you came on my thigh, with nothing on underneath? Were they that soaked?”

He slid a finger through her folds, slow but firm, and she gasped and nodded in response, her knees nearly buckling. Her hand flew to his chest, not to push him away — Maker, never that — but to hold on to something solid before she crumbled.

“I should drag you back to that meeting room,” he growled, pressing his body harder against hers. “Bend you over the same table you so smugly sat at. Let the whole fucking building hear who you belong to.”

Her breath stuttered. She couldn’t think. Could barely stand.

“And you do belong to me, don’t you?” His fingers slid deeper, a wicked tease, circling her clit with maddening precision. “You show me this perfect body, parade it in stockings, no panties… and then dare to ask what I’ll do?” He caught her earlobe between his teeth, a nip that made her gasp. Her hips rolled, helpless, aching, greedy for more. “Darling, I will break you,” he whispered. “Make you sob on my cock. And when you come undone, when you shatter for me, you’ll thank me for it.”

Each stroke of his fingers was deliberate. Designed to undo her. He held her against the wall like a plaything, like a secret he had no intention of sharing.

And Maker help her — she didn’t want to be shared.

Only he got to see her like this. Only he got to touch her, wreck her, unravel her.

She tilted her hips into his hand, and he rewarded her with more pressure, more heat — just enough to send her spiralling, not enough to let her fall.

Not yet.

He was going to make her beg.

And Rook would. She’d beg for him, cry for him, burn for him.

Because she knew now, no one else could ever do this to her.

No one but him.

Rook clung to him, her fingers fisting his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring her, but she wasn’t sure if she was holding him back — or holding herself together. His touch was everywhere, his hand beneath her skirt commanding, unrelenting. Until he felt her tremble, heard the soft sound of surrender in her breath.

And then he pushed further, two large fingers deep inside. He touched her like he already owned her, like this was his right— and she let him. Fuck, she let him. Every stroke, every press was dark and sure, as if he’d imagined this a thousand times and now he was making it real.

A cry escaped her lips. She wasn’t thinking anymore. There was no room for thought. Just the feel of him, the way he filled her senses, the way his control — so tight, so ironclad — finally cracked.

“Mine,” he growled, the word a low rumble against her throat, his mouth finding her pulse and marking her with teeth, with heat. “No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever touch you like this.”

And the way he said it — dark, possessive, hungry — it didn’t scare her. It lit her. Fed the fire already consuming her from within.

His hand moved with more purpose now, fingers working her with precision and power, driving her higher, taking her apart. His other hand pinned her hip, holding her there, making her feel that there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Only him. Only this.

Her body shook, the pleasure crashing over her in waves. Too much and not enough all at once. And still he didn’t stop. He kissed her again — rough, claiming, swallowing her gasps, her cries — as if he needed to feel all of it, every ounce of her surrender.

His fingers were unrelenting.

Circling her clit in tight, devastating strokes. Teasing her entrance just enough to make her gasp, to make her plead — but never enough to tip her over.

Not yet.

Her body arched against the wall, back bowing, her hands clutching at the front of his shirt like a lifeline, and still he didn’t let up. The pressure, the pace, the overwhelming ache that built with every movement of his hand — all of it designed to keep her trembling, needing, just on the edge.

He had her right where he wanted her.

And she knew it.

Her breath came in short, choked pants, hips grinding shamelessly into his palm. Her thighs shook from the effort of staying upright, her skin damp with sweat, flushed and frantic and on the verge of breaking.

And still… he didn’t stop.

But he didn’t finish her either.

He leaned close again — lips brushing her temple, his voice low, brutal, silk-wrapped steel.

“Say it,” he commanded.

She blinked up at him, dazed. Drenched. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“Say you’re mine,” he growled, his fingers pressing harder against her, a slow thrust that had her knees nearly giving way. “Say you’ll never let another man touch you. That no one else gets to see you like this. Beautiful. Spread open. Ruined.”

“Please—” she whimpered, voice high, wrecked.

He didn’t ease off. Didn’t give her the satisfaction. His mouth was at her ear again, hot and cruel.

“You think I’m going to let you fall apart without hearing it? After the way you taunted me?” His breath hitched — the sound of it dark, hungry, dangerous. “No, darling. I want the words. On your knees or in my lap or up against this fucking wall — I want the words.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, eyes rolling back as he pushed deeper, harder, his fingers now wet and gliding with obscene ease. “Yours—only yours—please don’t stop—”

He grinned.

Oh, he loved this.

Loved her begging. Loved that all that fire, all that smart little mouth of hers, was now reduced to whimpers and moans and need. That she was coming undone for him — no one else. No one could.

“That’s right,” he purred, pushing two fingers deep inside her, curling them just right, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit.

“You want to come for me?” he rasped against her skin. “Then do it. Come on my fingers, Ivy. Show me how good it feels to be mine.”

Her whole body snapped tight — then shattered.

Rook cried out, raw and unfiltered, her hips jerking against his hand as the orgasm ripped through her, brutal and blinding. Her nails dug into his chest. Her legs gave way completely, and he caught her effortlessly, holding her pinned, still grinding her through the aftershocks with slow, dragging strokes that wrung every last tremor out of her.

She sobbed against his shoulder, wrecked and panting, her mouth open against his throat, body twitching from oversensitivity, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And he just held her there — soaked, shaking, his.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, lips pressed to her temple.

When she shattered against his hand, it was with his name on her lips, soft and wrecked. And still, he held her close, his breathing harsh, his body shaking with the effort of holding himself back.

Because this wasn’t just about taking. It was about having. About showing her — and himself — what it meant.

And when her trembling eased, when her breath slowed, he stayed there, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice low, wrecked, but sure.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “And I’m never letting you forget it.”

***

EMMRICH POV

“Where are they?” Emmrich had asked as he pulled down the hem of her dress. He hadn’t needed to say what he was referring to — she already knew.

“In my bag.”

“Put them on,” he’d said lowly, his voice brushed with threat, veiled with command.

Rook had only smirked.

That infuriating smirk — the one that said you think you’re in control? Then she had turned, hips swaying, stockings whispering against her thighs as she glided from his office.

Gone.

He returned to his chair with each step deliberately measured. Calm. Collected. But his pulse beat like a war drum beneath his collar, and his erection strained against the fabric of his trousers.

The security feed flickered on.

And there she was.

Moving through the bank, chin lifted, dress clinging to every curve like a second skin.

His phone vibrated.

ROOK: Don’t tell me what to do. You talk about punishment, but you’ve yet to make me fear you. I brought you apart harder than you did to me.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching — just once.

His reply was curt.

EMMRICH: Are you challenging me?

The typing dots danced. Then—

ROOK: Oh, Professor. If only you knew. Check your door handle.

He turned, eyes narrowing as they fixed on the door. Slowly, cautiously — as though it might bite — he crossed the room and reached for the handle.

And there they were.

Draped like some obscene little trophy. Hung with quiet, smug pride.

Her knickers.

Black. Lilac accents. Lace-trimmed. Deliberate.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk.

But his thoughts—

Oh, my dear girl. You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed.

Chapter Text

The afternoon arrived more quickly than expected, slipping past Rook in a warm haze of productivity and faint exhaustion. A fast bite, though leaving her slightly dazed, brought a wave of blissful satisfaction—she hadn’t known how hungry she was until that first mouthful. Instead of taking her full break, she returned to work early to start reducing the large amount of paperwork on her desk. A nervous energy filled the air, a residue of anxiety following the recent layoffs.

Now that she had a new contract, Rook was in charge of both the cash desk and the main safes, responsibilities previously handled by Varric. Though the new arrangement lightened his burden, there was a prospect that it could mean longer, more stressful days for her. To ensure the till, vault, and safe were balanced, she, Emmrich, and Varric had to stay late that night to complete the end-of-day reconciliation. Considering the layoffs, they needed to make sure the figures were correct.

Neve had popped by earlier, poking her head into Rook’s office with a hopeful smirk and an unlit cigarette pinched between her fingers. “Smoke break? Come on, five minutes.”

Rook had smiled weakly, the corners of her mouth tugging up before she shook her head. “Can’t. Too much to do,” she’d said, gesturing toward the chaos on her desk.

Neve didn’t push—she never did when Rook got like this. Just offered a knowing nod and ducked away.

The second floor had been strangely quiet afterward. A low murmur of productivity, hushed footsteps on the carpet, the muted click of keyboards. Rook was grateful for the calm—it gave her time to think, to breathe. But peace never lasted long in this place. As Rook was standing in the open doorway to Varric’s office, a door slammed shut, its sudden crack shattering the quiet as if a bottle had been thrown against a stone wall. A screech followed, jagged and unmistakable.

“Is this a joke? I can’t believe this!”

Rook startled. She looked around, heart lurching in her chest. Neve and Varric froze too, trading alarmed glances.

“That’s Johanna,” Neve murmured, eyes wide. “Shit, is she—?”

Another shout tore through the air, louder this time. Words slurred with fury. Rook didn’t wait. She was on her way, already halfway across the wide corridor. Her hand went to her panic alarm to make sure it was still there, in case she needed to press the button. Harding had messaged earlier in the team group chat—she’d taken a vulnerable customer upstairs to Room Two for a quiet, confidential appointment. The customer had requested minimal disturbance. And now Johanna was rampaging like a woman unhinged.

Rook’s heels struck the floor sharply as she strode toward the commotion. She turned the corner and found Johanna storming around her room like a bull charging red. Her eyes were wild, rimmed with angry tears, face mottled with heat. Her fists were clenched.

“What the hell is going on?” Rook snapped, planting herself between Johanna and the office door. “We have customers up here in private appointments—what are you doing?”

“You!” Johanna shrieked so loudly it could have broken glass. Her finger, like a viper’s strike, shot out towards Rook. “You are entirely to blame for this! It’s all your fault!”

Rook blinked. Her stomach sank like a stone. “My fault?” Her voice, laced with disbelief, echoed the statement. “What are you talking about?”

Johanna stalked forward, her heels slamming the floor. “Don’t play dumb. You and that smug bastard. You think I don’t know what this is? Your feelings toward me have always been hateful. I was always the subject of whispered comments behind my back. And now you’ve had me replaced—congratulations. You won.”

Rook’s jaw tightened. Behind her, Neve and Varric had appeared at the corridor’s mouth. Harding’s door opened slightly, a worried face appeared, and quickly disappeared.

“Keep your voice down,” Rook hissed, stepping forward and lowering her tone, though fury simmered beneath her skin. “There are customers here, Johanna. This is not the place.”

“I don’t give a damn!” Johanna roared. Her mascara had smudged, leaving dark trails at the corners of her eyes. Her blouse was rumpled, collar askew, like she’d torn out of her chair the second the meeting ended. “I was loyal. I was here. And you—what did you do? Spread your legs and smile for the new boss until he gave you my job?”

Something inside Rook cracked.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared back at the woman before her with a cool, glittering look that could cut steel. “You need to leave. Right now.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Johanna snarled, stepping closer. “Throw me out like trash. Just like your real mum did. Guess being unwanted runs in the blood, doesn’t it? No wonder she gave you up—”

Rook’s breath caught, but Johanna, her eyes blazing with determination, wasn’t done.

“Thrown into the system like a broken toy. What was it? Four years in the foster system before your precious uncle Varric finally took pity on you? Or maybe he just didn’t want the family name dragged through the dirt.”

Rook stood still, spine ramrod straight, heart thudding like thunder in her ears. She felt Neve tense behind her. Even the hallway itself seemed to be holding its breath.

“You’ve been riding his coattails ever since,” Johanna sneered. “Always second best. The little charity case.”

Rook didn’t blink. When she spoke, her voice was clipped and professional, each word razor-edged. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for one day. I’d suggest you leave with what little dignity you have left—if there’s any still salvageable.”

Johanna’s eyes flared. The slap came hard and fast—crack—striking Rook across the cheek.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t stagger.

Slowly, she turned her head back, violet-flecked eyes meeting Johanna’s with icy calm.

Johanna stepped closer while Rook retreated cautiously; this wasn’t from fright, but to properly position the camera. “You think you’re so fucking composed. But underneath all that silk and self-righteousness, you’re still the same desperate little orphan looking for someone to love you.” Her voice dropped to a cruel whisper. “No wonder you’re fucking the boss. It’s probably the first bit of attention you’ve got.”

Again, Johanna raised her hand and Rook waited for her strike. She knew this action would be witnessed by others and captured by at least two cameras. She was certain Neve and Varric would be there to see it. Not to mention others that were now leaning out of their doors, watching the events unfold. Even the stairway door was open, with three occupants standing watch.

Johanna swung and hit Rook in the same place, and for a moment, they froze—shock and fury suspended between them—and then Rook let the rage fly. She turned her head back to the older woman, a smile on her face, and then let her have it. Her fist connected with Johanna’s face in a sharp, clean punch that sent the woman stumbling back with a howl. Blood erupted from Johanna’s nose, spilling over her fingers as she shrieked and crumpled against the wall.

Gasps echoed down the corridor. Harding’s door opened wider. Neve cursed. Someone clapped a hand over their mouth, while a few others laughed and cheered.

“Touch me again,” Rook dared, “and next time, I won’t be so gentle.”

“Holy shit,” Neve breathed, not even trying to hide her grin.

“Fuckin’ hell,” muttered Varric.

“Enough.”

The voice came from behind. Quiet. Sharp. Cold.

Emmrich was standing in the doorway to the stairwell, flanked by Myrna and Vorgoth. His gaze was fixed on Johanna with a sniper’s deadly precision; his jaw tight, his face an unreadable mask of threat.

“Security has already been called,” he said, every word laced with quiet warning. “I suggest you leave now. Your personal items will be packed and available for collection at five. Outside.”

Johanna was paralysed. Her mouth worked, twisted with blood and fury. “This isn’t over,” she hissed.

Her gaze darted to Rook—venomous, full of loathing—but Rook stood tall, hands steady at her sides, blood blooming in a faint mark along her cheek, eyes unblinking. Her hand was throbbing from where it connected with Johannas’ glasses.

Johanna spun on her heel and stormed toward the stairwell, nearly knocking into a Myrna on her way out.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Rook slowly exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath. Her pulse pounded against her cheek, where the blow had left its mark, her knuckles still clenched. Emmrich looked from her to Varric, his expression hard and unfathomable.

“Miss Ingellvar. With me.” Each word landed like the snap of a verdict.

Rook’s stomach dropped. Her jaw set. She stepped forward. She didn’t wait for a second command.

He didn’t wait to see if she’d follow. He simply turned and walked away, his long strides echoing with command down the corridor.

Rook blinked once.

The use of her surname hit harder than the slap had.

Her hands were trembling. Her face was unreadable. But deep beneath the surface, something had snapped—like a fault line cracking open.

And in the silence Johanna left behind, something new began to rise.

Something molten.

Something that felt a lot like rage.

For a moment, she stood rooted to the spot, throat tightening. And then she moved—shoulders squared, jaw set — and followed him without a word.

***

Emmrich didn’t need to glance back to know that she was following him. It wasn’t the sound of her heels on the tiles, nor her attempt to conceal a quiet sigh, that betrayed her. He knew she’d comply without question. Of course she would. That’s how things stood—a constant interplay of opposing forces, intense emotion alongside quietude, and the undeniable attraction between them. Furthermore, Rook’s professionalism was consistent. Give or take.

Arriving at his office, he opened the door, holding it not with grace or gentlemanly ease, but with his usual impassive stillness, the full weight of his title apparently bearing down on him.

Without speaking, she bypassed him and moved instinctively toward the window.

The skyline beyond was grey with approaching rain, the city blurred behind thick glass. Rook folded her arms, staring out, her posture straight but guarded, like a soldier on high alert behind enemy lines.

The door slammed shut behind her, and then she heard the sound of the lock turning. It was a deliberate, mechanical noise that sent a chill down her spine. She didn’t turn around—not yet. But her breath caught in her throat.

So, he was finished pretending that this was just about professionalism.

“Do you realise what you’ve done?” His voice was a knife — cold, precise, dangerous. “You will face me when I address you.”

Rook turned slowly, standing tall, arms still crossed tightly across her chest. “I stood up for myself.”

As he moved closer to her, his fists were clenched at his sides, and there was a gleam in his eyes, but it was not one of admiration; rather, it was a cold, hard glare that spoke of something far less pleasant.

“You lost control. In front of everyone.”

“She hit me first,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Is that sufficient justification for your reaction?” he snapped. His voice rose, not in volume but in heat — scalding and barely restrained. “You think because you were struck, you had permission to unravel? Do you believe your experience grants you the license to behave erratically? To bloody her nose? To put me — us — at risk?”

She matched his gaze, unflinching. “I don’t need your permission to defend myself.”

“No,” he agreed, voice low, dangerous. “My self-discipline is, however, necessary.”

Rook’s lips parted — a retort poised, something sharp — but it died the moment he surged forward. His hand locked around her arm and spun her hard toward the desk. The edge caught her hips as he bent her over it, the polished wood cold against her palms. She barely had time to gasp before his hands were already at the back of her dress.

With one rough motion, he yanked her skirt up around her waist.

He froze.

Still no knickers.

A low, furious growl left his throat. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course, you remain like this. Despite my instructions-”

“I don’t have a spare pair.” She countered, her cheek against the cool wood.

“Yet you saw fit to leave them at my door!”

Rook smirked at his outburst, and that was the moment she pushed in too far.

Crack.

And that shut her up.

The silence pulsed like a heartbeat — loud, hot, coiled.

“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he hissed, leaning over her. “Parading yourself in front of me. Flashing your skin. Testing how far you can push before I break.”

Then — crack.

His palm slammed against her bare backside, the impact echoing off the walls. She jolted forward, breath sucked between her teeth.

Another — crack — harder. Sharper. Deliberate.

She whimpered, hips shifting under the pressure, her thighs instinctively pressing together.

“You are mine,” he spat, punctuating the words with another slap, harder still. “My employee. My responsibility. My problem.”

Each word hit like a brand.

Crack.

“You don’t get to humiliate me in front of the staff.”

Crack.

“You don’t get to act like you’re untouchable.”

Crack.

“You don’t get to push me past my limit and think I won’t respond.”

Her breath shuddered out of her.

He stilled. His hand rested against the curve of her backside, the skin already flushing red beneath his grip. She was panting — not from pain.

“You love it, don’t you?” he whispered. “Being corrected. Being bent over my desk like you know you deserve.”

She didn’t speak.

But her body betrayed her — the soft tremble in her thighs, the hitch of her breath, the way she subtly arched her back to invite more.

He leaned in, breath brushing hot against her ear, his voice like velvet dragged over a blade.

“Say it.”

Silence.

Then, barely a whisper, “…I love it.” Her voice was scarcely audible.

It fractured something inside him.

Not his anger — no, that still burned. But the restraint he’d clung to with white knuckles slipped through his fingers like smoke.

He drew back just enough to look at her, bent over his desk, her dress hiked indecently high, her skin flushed from his handprints, trembling and breathless and entirely his.

“My beautiful mess,” he murmured, more to himself than her. “You don’t even see what you do to me.”

His fingers trailed up the curve of her spine, slow and firm, grounding them both. She shivered under his touch — not with fear, but with anticipation.

“You infuriate me,” he went on, his voice low, restrained but shaking at the edges. “You test every boundary I set, ignore every warning. You walk around this place with no underwear on and expect me to stay civil while you defy me in front of everyone.”

She turned her head slightly, her cheek pressing to the desk, but her gaze found his — wide, dark, lips parted.

He leaned down, mouth barely grazing her ear.

“You knew what you were doing.”

A pause. His breath on her skin.

“You wanted me like this.”

His fingers skimmed down, brushing the back of her thigh — not punishing now, but possessive. Worshipful. Still claiming her, but softer.

“You love it when I lose control,” he whispered. “Because you know no one else would ever dare touch you like this. Not safely. Not like I do.”

Rook’s breath hitched. Her hands clenched against the desk.

And then his mouth was on her shoulder — teeth grazing skin through fabric — not quite a kiss, not quite a bite. A brand. A reminder and it had her pressing her thighs together as the ache inside her bloomed wider, deeper.

“You’re mine, Ivy.”

Not Miss Ingellvar now.

Just Ivy.

He straightened behind her. His voice returned to command — smoother now, but no less iron-willed.

“Don’t move.”

She didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Behind her, the whisper of his belt again — low, deliberate — followed by the quiet shift of fabric as he removed his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, as if the heat between them demanded it.

And when he spoke again, his voice was darker. Hungrier.

“I’m not done teaching you,” he said, voice low and lethal.

She stayed still, exactly where he’d left her — bent over, raw heat radiating from her skin, breath trembling. She didn’t dare speak. Didn’t move. But every nerve in her body lit up when he stepped in closer, his presence pressing in behind her like a storm about to break. He took her hands and tied them behind her back, then, without warning, his hand wrapped around her arm again. Firm. Possessive.

“On your knees.”

A gasp escaped her lips. She reacted instinctively, dropping to her knees, her dress still hiked indecently around her hips. She didn’t fix it and couldn’t have, even if she’d wanted to. A rise and fall in her chest betrayed emotions beyond mere shame and punishment.

It was want.

He stared down at her.

Maker, she was beautiful like this — wild violet-brown eyes wide and glassy, lips slightly parted, flushed from the impact of his hand and the rush of it all. But it was the submission that undid him. Not the weakness — never that — but the trust. She’d given it to him freely. And it infuriated him.

Because he cared.

And he couldn’t afford to.

Emmrich’s jaw clenched as he reached down, cupping her face. His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, dragging it down just enough to part her mouth.

“Darling, you drive me mad,” he murmured. “You infuriate me, Ivy.”

Her eyes flicked up to his.

“You test me. You disobey me. You fight every line I draw—”

He paused, breathing through it.

“—And I still want you like nothing else, my dear.”

The words hung in the air, hot and quiet and dangerous.

His thumb slipped into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. She closed her lips around it instinctively, and he hissed softly, nostrils flaring.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said, voice lower now. “You know that.”

His other hand undid his belt. The leather whispered open, his movements slow, controlled — though his chest was rising and falling a little too fast.

“I just need you to understand,” he said, gaze burning down into hers. “Who you belong to.”

He released himself from his trousers, the weight of him heavy between them. Her eyes dropped, breath catching. And then lifted again to meet his.

There was no fear in her.

Only hunger.

He groaned softly and threaded his fingers into her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back.

“You’re going to take me, my darling girl,” he said, his voice now thick with need. “Not just because I command it. But because you want to.”

There was a pause, and he waited in case she objected, but she didn’t. There was no protest or argument. To show her consent, she opened her mouth willingly for him. Eager. Soft. Obedient.

And as he slid past her lips, slow and deep, his breath caught in his throat.

“Good girl,” he rasped.

It wasn’t a punishment anymore.

That was an assertion.

And beneath the fury, beneath the frustration, was a single, undeniable truth:

He needed her.

More than he’d ever admit.

Emmrich sank into her slowly at first, testing the heat of her, watching the way her lips stretched around him. Her eyes fluttered closed, lashes brushing her flushed cheeks, and he gave a low, broken sound from deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “Look at you.”

One hand gripped the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair, holding her still as he pushed in deeper. She gagged slightly, but didn’t pull back — not even an inch. Instead, she spread her thighs to steady herself.

She wanted it.

She took it.

“You were made for this,” he growled, thrusting forward now with more force, more rhythm. “Made to be on your knees. Made to swallow every inch.”

Her throat tightened around him — involuntarily, perfectly — and his grip tightened.

“Filthy little thing. You act like you’re in control, like you can mouth off and talk back — but you love this, don’t you? Being used. Owned.”

He pulled back, let her gasp for breath, only to slide back in deeper — burying himself to the hilt. Her moan vibrated around him, and he nearly lost it.

“You’ll take what I give you,” he snarled. “Because that’s what you fucking asked for.”

Another thrust. Harder. Deeper.

“Walking around my bank like a goddamn temptation — no knickers, skirts too short, all that attitude. What did you think would happen, darling?”

He looked down at her — tearful eyes, wet lips, flushed face — and something primal roared in his chest.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Choke on it. Take all of me like a good fucking girl.”

His rhythm grew sharper, hips snapping forward with intent. Her throat worked around him, her hands pulling and testing the knot he had wrapped her in, and he could feel her — the need in her — the way she leaned into it, moaned around him, took it.

“Mine,” he hissed, his voice cracking. “You’re fucking mine, and this is what you get when you forget that.”

She whimpered again, not from pain, from the praise, the possession, the way he held her there like she belonged to no one but him.

And Maker help him, she did.

He leaned over and removed the tie, and she gripped his thighs to steady herself, and she took him faster.

Emmrich was close — too close. Every breath, a growl, every thrust harder, deeper, more ragged. His body strained, muscle tight with restraint, sweat clinging to his brow. The tight heat of her mouth drew him in like gravity, her throat flexing around him with every push, her hands clawing at his thighs like she needed him deeper, needed all of him.

And her eyes.

Maker, those eyes.

Glass-slick and open, violet-flecked and locked on his with a fierce, unyielding clarity. There was nothing submissive in that gaze — only defiance, devotion, fire.

He faltered.

“Ngh,” he choked out, voice cracking as her mouth held him deep. “Even now. Even with your mouth full of me. You’re still looking at me like that.”

She moaned in response — low, hungry, wrecked — and the vibration of it traveled straight through him.

He snapped.

One hand slid to cradle her jaw, possessive and reverent, thumb stroking the hinge of her cheek as he thrust again — slow and punishing — holding himself there, deep, the back of her throat tightening around him.

“No one else,” he gasped, trembling with awe, with rage, with something perilously close to worship. “No one else would dare look me in the eye like that.”

Her tongue moved. Her moan deepened. And he swore he felt it — the shift. The surrender. The challenge.

“You should be broken,” he rasped, his thumb brushing the tears that pooled in the corners of her lashes. “But you’re not. You’re still here. Still mine.”

His hips rolled forward, slow and firm, another pulse of need tearing through him as she whimpered, as her mouth welcomed every inch. She blinked, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and stretched wide, her breath catching on every growled thrust.

“I’ve had power over people,” he said, voice gritted between his teeth. “But no one ever matched me. No one’s ever burned like you.”

His hands shook, trying to hold back, trying to survive her.

She was too much. Too beautiful. Too good.

And she wanted him undone.

“You want my praise?” he breathed, voice fraying at the edges. “You want the truth, my dear?”

Another moan from her, pleading and wet and laced with the slick heat of her tongue.

“You’re perfect,” he groaned, nearly delirious. “Fucking perfect. And I hate how much I need you.”

The orgasm tore through him with brutal force.

He came with a raw groan, hips jerking forward as he spilled into her, hot and heavy. She swallowed him down — every last drop — as her moan vibrated around him like a curse and a prayer. He clung to her face, his fingers trembling as she stayed there, obedient and hungry, letting him ride out every pulse, every tremor, until he had nothing left to give.

And still, she watched him.

Her mouth open. Tongue flicking over her lip. Her eyes never flinched.

He pulled back with a hiss, chest heaving, fingers brushing damp strands of hair from her face, reverent.

“Good girl,” he whispered, hoarse. “My wicked girl.”

She smiled, and it nearly broke him.

Her lips were slick. Her eyes glassy. Her breath shallow.

He stared down at her like she was unreal.

“Darling…You...”

A bitter, breathless laugh slipped from him — not mocking, but shattered. He cupped her face with both hands now, gazing into her like he might never get enough.

“I should punish you again just for moaning like that.”

His thumb swept across her cheek, lingering at the corner of her mouth, collecting a glint of him there.

“You wanted to break me,” he whispered, voice raw with disbelief. “And you did.”

But she smiled through the tears — quiet and proud — and he dropped to his knees in front of her.

He cradled her face in his hands, eyes searching hers like he was hunting for the meaning of life between her lashes. Ruin. Worshipful. Worn down to nothing but awe.

“I will never have enough of you,” he whispered.

And then he kissed her — slow, deep, and ruined.

As if the only thing that had ever made sense was her.

Chapter Text

By mid-afternoon, the building had settled into its quiet rhythm — that lull between meetings and closing time where even the printer stopped groaning. Rain lashed the windows in steady sheets, casting the Nevarran skyline into a grey blur. A storm brewed, thunder threatening on the horizon.

Rook had just slipped back into her office, ready to tackle the last of her reports. The sting of earlier still lingered on her skin, but the real ache sat deeper. Rook moved like someone trying to outrun the memory — fixing her lipstick, smoothing the fabric of her dress, brushing her hair into something that resembled composure, all before she left the upper floor.

Her hands were steady. Her breath was even.

She looked nothing like the girl who'd dropped to her knees in his office.

But she felt like her.

Neve entered without knocking, interrupting as Rook was settling in at her desk.

"Alright," Neve said, eyes sharp, "what the hell happened?"

"I'm busy," Rook replied coolly, not looking up. "Unless someone's bleeding or on fire, it can wait."

Neve shut the door behind her. "You've been glowing like a sunrise since you came back from upstairs. And don't think I didn't clock the lipstick refresh or that hitch in your step."

Rook's jaw tensed. "Is this how you treat all your friends, or am I just the special one?"

Neve crossed the room and perched on the desk, blocking the view of the monitor. "You are special. That's why I'm not letting you get away with this."

"I'm not lying."

"No. You're avoiding. Entirely different sport." Neve tilted her head. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No," Rook said — too quickly, too harshly. Her eyes flicked up, fierce and glassy. "He didn't hurt me."

Neve backed off slightly. "So something happened."

Silence bloomed.

"It's complicated," Rook said finally.

Neve smiled faintly. "Of course it is. It's you."

Rook huffed a breath. "I shouldn't want this. Him. "

"Why not?"

"Because it's a mess. Because I don't know where the line is. One minute, he's making me feel like I'm the only thing that exists. Next, he's the composed CEO. Like nothing happened."

"And you think you're imagining it."

Rook said nothing.

Neve slid down, crouched beside her, resting a hand on her knee. "You're not."

"I don't know what he wants."

"You do," Neve said gently. "You just don't want to believe it. Last time you hoped for more, it shattered you."

That hit too close.

"I know how much you hide," Neve continued. "You act untouchable. Like, none of it can reach you. But it does. You won't show it."

"I can't afford to."

"You can, with me."

Rook's breath wavered.

"You're falling for him."

No response.

"And he's already fallen for you."

Rook's throat worked around the lump forming there. "It doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because it won't last. It never does. They always leave."

Neve's hand found hers. "Maybe this one won't."

"I don't know how to do this."

"You don't have to. … stop pretending you don't care. He already knows."

Rook nodded faintly, as if the words knocked loose some unseen weight.

Then, with a shaky exhale, she added, "If you tell anyone I got sentimental, I'll deny it and kill you in your sleep."

"Fair." Neve grinned. "So, are you really busy?"

Rook blinked. "Not too busy. What's going on?"

"I'm clearing out Johanna's office." Neve nudged the box up. "Figured I'd pack the rest of her crap before someone else does it wrong. Thought maybe you'd want to help — or at least laugh at whatever weird stuff she hoarded."

Rook hesitated. "We're not supposed to—"

"She's gone," Neve said flatly. "And it's not snooping if you're cleaning. Come on."

That made Rook smile. "Alright. Let's see what the bitter bitch left behind."

Not five minutes later, they were ankle-deep in Johanna's former dominion — a room that stank of perfume, printer ink, and stale cigarette smoke. Her desk sat slightly off-centre, as if waiting for her return. Her coat and bag were gone, but everything else remained untouched.

While Rook took the smashed company laptop to Davrin for diagnostics, Neve had gone full excavator, yanking drawers open and scattering papers across the floor.

"You will not believe this," Neve said, crouched beside the bottom cabinet. "There's a false bottom in here."

Rook crossed the room and knelt beside her. "Seriously?"

Neve pried the panel loose, revealing a neat stack of slim, unlabelled folders — precise, uniform, deliberately hidden.

"No way," Rook muttered. "That's not admin paperwork."

"See for yourself." Neve handed one over.

Rook flipped it open. Her stomach dropped. Inside were account ledgers, annotated memos, and email transcripts. The first page alone mentioned Solas twice. Flipping to another, she spotted a familiar account flagged as "suspicious" — the signature forged.

"These are compliance-level files," she whispered. "They should have been put away under lock and key. Fuck, even I don't have clearance for this."

Neve opened another and sucked in a breath. "This one has sign-offs from someone who hasn't worked here in years. And this—" She pointed at two wildly different names with oddly similar flourishes in the handwriting. "This loop here... look familiar?"

Rook narrowed her eyes. "That's nearly Johanna's old signature."

They exchanged a look.

"We need Varric," Neve said.

"And Emmrich," Rook added, already reaching for her phone. "Do you think they're nearly done with their meetings?"

"When Varric asked me to come in here, they were heading into their last one."

FadeApp:

ROOK : We have a situation.

His reply came almost instantly.

EMMRICH: Are you alright?

ROOK : Yes, but there's something you need to see. There are hidden files in Johanna's desk.

EMMRICH : I'm wrapping up this meeting. Give me ten minutes.

***

It hadn't even been five minutes when Emmrich and Varric entered, drawn by the urgency in their messages. Emmrich's eyes swept over the mess — open folders, loose pages — then landed on Rook and Neve.

"Where were these?" He asked.

"False bottom," Neve said, jerking her chin toward the desk.

"Of course," Varric muttered. "She never could do anything the simple way."

Emmrich picked up a folder and flipped through it. His jaw clenched.

"These reference Solas," he said grimly. "And multiple compliance breaches."

"There's more," Neve said. "Forgery. We found several sign-offs with mismatched signatures."

Rook opened one file. "This one has my name on it." She jabbed her finger at the page. "But I never approved this. That's not even how you spell my name."

Varric looked at her sharply. "You're certain?"

"I'm damn sure," she bit back.

Emmrich closed the folder with a snap. "We don't have time to comb through all of it now, and this can't stay out in the open."

Neve crossed her arms. "So, what do you suggest?"

"We lock it away," Emmrich said. "Not the vault. The archive."

Neve frowned. "The secure room?"

Emmrich nodded. "Swipe card and access code only. Logs track every visit. Cameras outside and in. Neve, you'll file a chain of custody report. Rook, help box everything. No labels. No markers. Just reference codes."

"Understood," they said in unison.

Together, they packed the contents into two flat boxes, sealed and nondescript. Emmrich and Varric led both women to the archive—a plain steel door on the first floor, marked only with a code plate.d, entered her code. A hiss, then cool air met her skin as the door unsealed.

Rook stepped inside first. The deposit was logged, the final signature locked in place. Emmrich's access credentials had been queued for activation — all that remained was confirmation.

Varric offered a brief nod. "Need to get Emmrich set up for the secure room," he said, already turning to go. Neve followed, her expression unreadable.

And then they were alone.

Only Rook and Emmrich remained.

She looked up at him, eyes steady despite the chill.

"Tell me," she said, her voice low, "how deep do you think this goes?"

Emmrich's gaze lingered on the sealed boxes. "I think we've barely scratched the surface."

***

The soft click of the coin tray snapped into place as Rook finished logging the totals for drawer five. The clink of metal and the rustle of paper notes were the only sounds in the small back office, lit by the dim overhead lights and the glow of two ageing desktop monitors.

Varric sat across from her at the other table, sleeves inked with graphite from a dull pencil he used to cross-check the handwritten float sheets. He hadn't said much since they started, letting the quiet settle between them the way it always had — comfortable, unspoken.

Rook liked it this way. Numbers didn't talk back. They balanced or they didn't.

She dropped the last roll of gold coins into its marked tray. "That's the last of them. Everything matches."

"Mm." Varric tapped something into his calculator, then set the pencil down. "You're still fast."

She offered a faint smile. "Guess some things stick."

He nodded, but didn't look up. "You've always taken on more than you should."

That made her pause.

Across the desk, he finally raised his eyes to meet hers. Warm. Steady. Too perceptive.

"I'm not asking what's going on with you and the big boss," he said softly, "but I'm not blind, either."

Rook didn't answer. She adjusted the bank bag instead, sliding the strap closed with a metallic snap.

"I just want you happy, kid."

Her chest tightened, the kind of ache that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with hearing something kind when she didn't feel like she'd earned it.

"I know," she said, voice quiet.

"You've been holding yourself together with duct tape and sarcasm since you were ten. Maybe let someone else carry a piece of it once in a while."

She gave him a flat look, but it was gentler than it used to be. "I don't want to be a burden."

"No," Varric said. "You're not. You never have been. But that doesn't mean you have to carry it alone."

She looked down, jaw clenched. "I'm fine."

"You always say that when you're not."

Rook exhaled through her nose. The ache in her cheek from Johanna's slap pulsed like a quiet reminder.

Varric stood and slid the tally sheets into a folder. "You don't owe anyone explanations. But you do deserve better than surviving."

That caught her, just for a second.

***

Rook was still tidying up the cash trays when the door opened.

She didn't need to look to know who it was. The shift in the air told her first — quieter, heavier, aware. Then came the soft click of the door closing behind him, and the scent of something fresh, sharp and clean: lemon, herbs, a whisper of garlic.

Emmrich carried two paper bags from the fancy bistro across the way, the ones with the heavy folded tops and real cutlery inside.

"I assume everything's in order?" he asked, voice low but not cold.

Rook straightened. "Balanced to the penny. Even drawer three."

He gave a slight nod of approval as he set the bags down on the filing cabinet beside them, and for once, his tie was loosened slightly.

Rook noticed. Of course, she did; her eyes roamed over his lean frame, and she bit her lip.

Emmrich reached into one of the bags and pulled out a compostable container, setting it on the desk in front of her. "Yours. Quinoa salad. Roasted vegetables. With extra halloumi."

She blinked at him. "You remembered I love cheese?"

He didn't meet her eyes as he pulled out his own container — lemon, mint and some salad by the looks of his container. "I remember everything you say. Even when you think I'm not listening."

Before she could answer, Varric returned, wiping his hands on a clean cloth.

"I smell overpriced health food," he said with a smirk. "Don't tell me the professor is actually trying to feed you."

"She hasn't eaten all day," Emmrich said, not looking up from where he was unpacking the cutlery. "Someone had to."

Varric gave her a side glance — not smug, just knowing. "Good. She forgets. Always does when she's taken on too much."

"I have enough for all of us. I got a few different dishes. Hope you don't mind Varric, I stayed vegetarian options." 

"Fine with me," the shorter man replied, then his phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. "One sec. It's Bianca."

He stepped toward the hallway as he answered. "Hey, love. What's—?"

There was a pause, then the change in his voice: softer, but troubled. "Again? The three of them?"

Rook turned instinctively, watching his back tense.

"No, no, it's fine. I'll come home as soon as I can. Give them some fluids, keep them cool. I'll grab something for dinner on the way."

Rook glanced at Emmrich, her brow raising. 

"I already told him to go home that he wasn't needed. Seems stubbornness runs in the family." A smirk on Emmrich's face. He hadn't emptied the second bag; he had only cracked the seal. He folded it back over and took it to speak with Varric. The conversation was brief, Emmrich's voice stern but quiet.

"Alright." Varric looked between them, hesitated, then nodded. "Thanks, both of you."

"Let me know if I can do anything," Rook said, going to hug him. "You look shattered old man."

Her uncle chuckled and said nothing more. He didn't need to.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, Rook and Emmrich were alone.

***

The silence after Varric left wasn't awkward. It was thick — charged, but settled.

Rook sat back down slowly, peeling open the lid of her container. The scent of roasted red pepper, charred courgette, and lemony quinoa rose from the steam, familiar and clean. Emmrich's food was still unopened beside him on the desk, untouched.

He was watching her.

Not the way he did in the office. Not with that sharp, assessing gaze she was used to. This was different. Softer. Still intent, but absent of control. His focus wasn't strategic. It was quiet… and whole.

"Come on," she said, scooting the box between them and pulling her chair closer to sit beside him. She offered him a bite, and he accepted it. "Open your own cutlery; I don't get paid enough to feed you," she added with a grin as she looked up at him.

Rook stabbed a bit of squash with her fork and took a bite, suddenly more aware of how she chewed than she'd ever been before. When she glanced up, his gaze hadn't shifted.

"What?" she asked, cautious, voice low.

He blinked, like she'd pulled him from somewhere else. "Nothing."

"That didn't look like nothing."

Emmrich looked down, picked up his fork, and absently dragged it through his salad. "I was just… thinking."

She tilted her head slightly. "About?"

He didn't answer right away. Then, with a quiet exhale, he set the fork down, turned slightly in his chair, and reached for her hand.

It wasn't abrupt. It wasn't demanding.

It was gentle.

She watched, breath caught in her throat, as he slid his palm over hers and carefully laced his fingers between hers, one by one.

Her hand relaxed slowly into the shape of his. The warmth of his skin, the strength in his grip… but there was a subtle tremor there. Not hesitation. Not fear.

Just feeling.

He didn't look at their hands. He looked at her. He tilted her face and examined the subtle pink stain on her cheek, touching it lightly with the tips of his fingers.

"Your skin's still warm," he murmured, thumbing over the soft part of her cheek. "Is it from the slap… or from me? The way I held your face when you were on your knees?"

Rook's throat tightened.

"Both," she said, honest and small.

He nodded slightly.

The silence returned. But this time it felt like a cocoon. Contained. Breathable.

His thumb kept moving over hers — slow, rhythmic, like he didn't realise he was doing it.

"I don't like seeing you hurt," he said softly, not looking away. "Not because you're fragile. You're far from it. But because I care more than I should."

Her heart clenched.

"You say that like it's a weakness," she replied.

He shook his head. "It's not weakness. It's weight. And I've never been good at holding things lightly."

She swallowed, unsure what to say.

But she didn't let go.

They ate slowly like that — one hand each, the other occupied with forks and quiet conversation.

He laughed. She smiled.

And all the while, their fingers stayed interlaced. No pressure. No expectations.

Just closeness.

By the time she'd finished eating, she realised something strange had settled in her chest.

Not heat. Not lust.

Something quieter. Heavier.

And when she looked up again, Emmrich was still watching her.

Not with hunger. Not with possession.

But with something else.

Something dangerously close to love.

***

Rook speared the last piece of roasted carrot and waved it theatrically before popping it into her mouth. "That was alarmingly edible."

Emmrich raised an eyebrow. "Alarmingly?"

She smirked. "You just don't strike me as the kind of man who orders quinoa and roasted veg. I was expecting… I don't know. A dry sandwich and a scowl."

He leaned back in his chair slightly, their hands still joined on the table between them. "I'll admit, I considered it. But then I remembered I was feeding you. And you'd complain."

"Damn right I would've." She paused, then added with a grin, "Would've marched straight upstairs and demanded compensation."

"Oh?" His tone shifted — a note of teasing danger undercutting the ease. "And what would that entail, Miss Ingellvar?"

She shrugged, deliberately casual. "Something dramatic. Tears. Accusations. Maybe I'd faint in the banking hall for effect."

He laughed — actually laughed, a deep, unguarded sound that made her stomach flip.

"You're dangerous when you're theatrical," he said, smile lingering.

"I'm dangerous all the time. You're just finally catching up."

"Mm." His eyes darkened slightly, fingers tightening around hers. "I caught up the moment you stopped pretending not to want me."

She arched a brow. "Confident, aren't we?"

"Experienced," he corrected, voice low. "Though in fairness, you were rather… expressive earlier."

Her cheeks warmed instantly. "I was encouraged. You didn't exactly leave room for polite conversation."

"I prefer actions to words," he murmured, leaning slightly closer.

She met his gaze — heat rising under her skin now, but her voice stayed dry. "I noticed. You've got a very persuasive mouth."

That earned her another faint, wicked smile. "And you've got a very disobedient one."

A quiet pause passed between them — not uncomfortable, just full.

Then she said, softly but wryly, "I like it when you laugh."

He tilted his head. "Is that so?"

"You look less… carved from marble. Still terrifying, just slightly more human."

He chuckled, fingers brushing against hers again. "You make me human. That should worry both of us."

"Oh, it does. " She grinned, eyes glinting. "But it's far too late to walk away now."

The food was finished, but neither of them had moved. Empty takeout containers were pushed to the side, and Rook's fork idled in her hand, forgotten halfway between the box and her lips as she watched his large hands.

They had been talking and laughing, but the air between them had thickened, charged with something unsaid.

"Careful, Miss Ingellvar," he murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked over her, lingering where her dress sat just a little too low. "Keep looking at me like that, and I might forget we're still technically on the clock."

Rook's smile curled slowly, feline in nature. "You say that as if it's ever stopped you before."

That gave him pause. A raised brow, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—dangerous territory, and he knew it.

"And what would you have me do?" he asked, his voice low and teasing. "Lock the office door?"

"Tempting," she replied, rising and smoothing her dress down as the heat of his gaze followed her every movement. "But I have something better in mind."

She reached the door, paused, and glanced back at him—her violet-brown eyes sparking with promise.

"Give me five minutes." A sly smile spread across his face, and she winked. "Keep your phone close, Professor."

***

The conference room was empty and quiet. Darkness had fallen outside the office windows that evening. The tint allowed occupants to see out, but prevented anyone from seeing in. Much the same as Emmrich's office on the floor above.

Rook moved to a side desk, flicked the light, and looked up at the dark table - his table.

Better to ask for forgiveness than seek permission , she thought.

Fingers slid to the back of her dress. The zip came down slowly, soundlessly, save for the soft exhale that followed. The fabric fell in a whisper, pooling at her feet, before being folded with care and set beside her.

Cool air skimmed along her thighs, where sheer stockings hugged her tightly, anchored by lilac ribbons and bands of silk. No knickers—still. Just skin, temptation, and a low pulse of heat.

She lowered herself into the chair—his chair—legs crossing at the knee in a pose as deliberate as it was defiant. The posture held a command. Chin lifted back straight, gaze set—a picture of composure with chaos flickering beneath the surface.

Black and lilac lace cupped her breasts, sheer enough to tease, structured enough to shape. Chosen this morning with quiet precision, an act of rebellion. She hadn't known where the day would lead—but now, seated at the head of his table, bare and waiting, it all made sense.

Not a queen, not a pawn.

An invitation.

A challenge.

Rook moved to perch on the edge of the table, lying elegantly, but suggestively. Her arms rested along the chair arms, posture composed but entirely meant to unravel him.

Afterwards, she lifted her phone.

The camera snapped. Not vulgar. Not obvious. A study in shadow and intention — her figure framed against the head of the table, that unmistakable mix of confidence and temptation in her gaze.

She typed:

ROOK : {Image attached x2}

Boardroom's free.

I thought I'd get a head start on tomorrow's agenda.

I'm not sure which position feels more comfortable.

Dress code: optional.

Time-sensitive item, Professor.

Don't keep me waiting.

Sending it, she waited. Her pulse throbbed loudly in her ears, but her expression remained unchanged.

One minute passed. Then two.

Her screen lit up, showing that her photo had been delivered and seen. There was no typing bubble, no reply; only silence.

The clock on the wall opposite her continued to tick, and she chewed on her lip. Her heartbeat grew even louder in her ears. She glared at her phone, hoping that her intense gaze would somehow force a reply.

Say something, Emmrich. Give me anything.

Yet, the silence that lingered didn't answer. Rook's hand hesitated over her phone that sat beside her, a twist in her chest, and she sighed to herself.

And then she heard it -

Click.

The sound of a door further along the corridor. She sat up straighter, breath catching in her throat.

Another sound.

Next, footsteps.....

Measured. Controlled. Deliberate.

One leather sole was placed purposefully in front of another.

Not fast.

Not frantic.

Inevitable.

Certain.

As though gravity itself has started to shift.

Rook's rose coloured lips parted, her pulse climbing in anticipation.

He hadn't messaged. He hadn't needed to.

Because he was coming to her.

Finding her and accepting her invitation.

The rhythm of his stride was unhurried, but there was nothing casual about it. The sound of polished shoes on marble grew louder with each passing second, rising like a tide in her chest.

And she didn't move. Couldn't. Wouldn't.

The door to the conference room remained closed, but she could hear him in the corridor. Inching his way closer. Trying his damndest to keep his composure, his control from cracking. Another door closed, and she could feel him on the other side—that tension he carried like a storm in a sealed jar.

Rook set her phone back down, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.

Emmrich's footsteps ceased outside the conference room doors.

For one perfect, breathless moment, the silence returned - heavy and suspended, like the air before lightning strikes.

The handle subsequently turned.

The doors opened.

And there he was.

Emmrich Volkarin stepped inside with a calmness that made her breath stall. His hair—always meticulous—was slightly tousled now, as if he'd run a hand through it more than once.

He didn't speak.

Didn't ask.

Didn't blink.

The moment he walked in, his gaze locked onto hers, a slow, searing intensity that made her breath catch, before falling to her body with a lingering appraisal. There was no hunger or shock in his expression. Complete confidence. It was as if she had waited for him her whole life. And now he was here to collect what he was owed.

Rook didn't move. Her posture was impeccable; legs crossed, hands resting gently on her thighs, spine ramrod straight. Though her heart thundered, she didn't break his gaze as he approached without a word. She felt a shiver run down her spine as the lock clicked.

Emmrich advanced slowly, deliberately, like a predator stalking, not prey, but a surprising gift. Something sacred. Halfway across the room, her breath caught in her throat as she watched him. He never took his eyes off her.

He arrived at the table's head and paused in front of her. So close, the heat from him radiated towards her in waves. And still, he didn't touch her. He stood before her like a force barely held back, his breath even, his eyes tracking every inch of skin exposed to him — every shift in her posture, every flutter in her throat.

A flush rose on her skin under the lace. Slowly and purposefully, she uncrossed her legs; her subtle shift momentarily diverted his attention downward. But when they returned to hers, they were darker now, steadier.

Let him see what he did to her, what she had chosen for him. Let him realise this wasn't a trap. It was a surrender—one he had earned and one he would have to answer for.

Until his gaze dipped — just slightly — and his jaw tensed.

At last, his voice was heard. Low. Smooth. Threaded with that quiet, dangerous control she knew far too well.

"Still no panties."

The words rolled through her like a current — not crude, not even particularly loud — but pointed . Not a question. Not a compliment.

A fact.

Silently, her lips moved. Flushed, she instinctively closed her legs under his gaze. He took a step closer. Just one. Enough to crowd her without touching. His eyes lifted to hers again, sharp and dark.

"You planned this."

She tilted her head slightly. "You sound surprised."

"I'm not," he murmured.

His gaze lingered — not just her body, but her . Something unreadable moving behind his eyes. Something that felt like it could destroy them both if left unspoken.

But he kept it buried, for now.

Instead, his hand came to rest on the edge of the table beside her thigh, fingers brushing the solid surface. Still not touching her.

"I should reprimand you," he hissed. "Call it insubordination. Exhibitionism. Gross misuse of executive meeting space."

She arched a brow. "So why haven't you?"

A flicker of heat crossed his expression. He bent slightly, his voice a whisper against her skin, near but not touching.

"Because, Miss Ingellvar," he said, voice dark silk, "you look far too fucking exquisite like this."

Only at that juncture did he move.

Slowly. Deliberately. Like a man who had waited long enough.

Emmrich leaned in, his gaze locked on hers the entire time. There was no rush. No greed. Just absolute certainty — the kind that made her stomach twist and her thighs clench with raw anticipation.

Her breath caught the moment before it happened.

He tilted his head a little and kissed her.

Not rough.

Not punishing.

No — it was close. Devastatingly intimate. A quiet claim that sparked fire beneath her skin. His lips were warm, his breath steady, his control so agonisingly tight it made her ache. The kind of kiss that didn't just want — it warned .

I could ruin you right now.

But I'm choosing not to.

For now.

He tasted like mint, lemon, and restraint — and Maker , that rigid control. Rook throbbed at the realisation of how he held himself with such discipline. One hand lifted to cradle her face, fingers curling beneath her jaw, thumb sweeping over her skin as if relearning her — mapping the terrain of something he'd already claimed but needed to touch again to believe it was real.

Rook exhaled against his mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut. The pressure between her thighs pulsed, sharp and needful, at the briefest brush of his lips.

It exceeded mere wanting.

It was intentional. Possession . Worship wrapped in silk and fire.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to speak. His forehead brushed hers, breath hot.

"You take my breath away," He murmured, voice low with breathless want . "And you know it."

She smiled faintly. Her lips tingled. Her blood sang.

"Good," she whispered.

He lingered. Close enough that his breath warmed her cheek. Without warning, he kissed her again.

Deeper.

No hesitation. No space left between them.

His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, threading into her hair, guiding her to him like she belonged nowhere else. His mouth devoured her now — hot, consuming—not brutal, but hungry like he needed to memorise her from the inside out. Like he was starving, and she was the only thing that could satisfy him.

Following this, his mouth moved across her cheek, her jaw, and lower down her neck.

"Maker," Emmrich murmured, his voice rough as gravel. "You're obscene, stretched out like this."

She gasped when he found the spot beneath her ear. He kissed it once. Then again. Slower this time, his tongue a flicker of heat that made her knees tremble and her grip on the table tighten.

He made a sound — a dark, low growl — barely restrained. Following that, his hands were at her waist.

In one swift, fluid motion, he pulled her forward.

She gasped as her hips slid toward the table's edge, legs parting instinctively to make room for him. The cool air kissed the wet heat between her thighs — so bare, so offered — and Emmrich stepped into that space like it had been made for him.

Because it had .

He stood between her knees now, his belt grazing her thigh, hard and heavy. One hand cradled the back of her head; the other gripped her hip, possessive and sure.

And then, his mouth was on hers again.

Deeper.

Hotter.

There was a demand for that kiss now. Promise. A dark, filthy kind of reverence that said he'd press her flat to the table, fuck her until her voice gave out, and thank her for the privilege.

Her back arched, her thighs widening. His hand slid up the curve of her stocking-clad leg, fingers flexing. The sound he made — low, feral — told her precisely what he was imagining.

He wanted her laid out.

He wanted her wrecked.

He wanted her to be his .

And Maker, she wanted it too.

His lips left hers with maddening slowness. He kissed down her throat, tasting her skin like sacrament — warm and salt-sweet — and when he dropped to his knees, her breath hitched.

Not all the way. Just enough to bring him level with her chest.

His hands came up, deliberate, reverent, brushing over the swell of her breasts where they sat snug in that black-and-lilac bra. The lace contrast drew a sound from deep in his throat — something dark, almost worshipful.

He cupped her first through the fabric—thumbs sweeping, slow and firm, memorising the shape and weight like a scholar cataloguing holy scripture. Then — with a tug — he dragged the cups down.

Her breasts spilt free. Nipples tightening instantly under the cool air and his heated stare.

Emmrich exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

"You wore lilac," he said, voice low and dangerous, thumb brushing in circles around her nipple without touching. "My favourite."

He leaned in and took her into his mouth.

His tongue was slow. Heavy. Perfect. He sucked and flicked and sampled until she moaned, until her back arched into him, until her fingers knotted in his hair. He next changed his focus, giving the other nipple the same loving attention. His mouth moved with purpose, his hands gentle but unyielding as they held her still.

When he lifted his head, his breath hot against the wet skin of her breast, his voice was dark silk and thunder.

"And you expect me to behave," he said, lips curving into a wicked smirk.

Then he kissed lower.

Down her stomach. Down the soft skin of her ribs.

His hands slid under her thighs and lifted, tilting her back until she was propped against the edge of the table, open and glistening and bare.

No panties.

No modesty.

No shame.

His breath hitched. He looked at her — really looked — and growled .

"Fuck, darling."

Then he kissed her again.

Lower.

His lips brushed her inner thigh repeatedly until she trembled. The stubble of his jaw scratched deliciously against her skin. His hands were warm and firm on her thighs, thumbs pressing sufficiently to anchor her.

"Lay back, my dear girl," he said, guiding her with a firm hand. "Be still for me."

Rook obeyed, flushed and trembling, arms at her sides as he took his seat in his chair, at the head of the table—the seat of power, the seat from which he ruled—and gazed down the length of her bare body like a man starving.

His fingers slid up her inner thighs, parting them. His mouth followed.

She cried out the moment he touched her.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow . Broad. Filthy.

He devoured her like he had all the time in the world. Like nothing else mattered. Like a devoted penitent seeking absolution between the altar of her thighs.

His tongue was hot and thorough, teasing her folds with lazy circles, lapping up every drop of her need. Thighs spread wide, he pinned her to the cool surface. His mouth was relentless, gaze locked on hers as he devoured, twitching and moaning as though it were ambrosia from heaven.

"Are you aware of the number of meetings I've attended at this table today?" he said between strokes. "Imagining you spread before me like this ? How your nectar would taste."

He sucked at her clit, and she arched off the table, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. He didn't let up. She writhed under his mouth, fingers scrambling at the polished table for something to hold on to, but he wouldn't let her flee the pleasure. His hands pinned her hips in place while he devoured her like a man long denied.

Her body bucked, and he groaned as she pulsed against his mouth, her orgasm ripping through her in waves so intense she sobbed his name.

It was only after that he raised his head, his chin glistening, his intense stare dark with molten desire.

And he smiled—a slow, dangerous smile.

"I'm not done with you yet, my dear."

She gasped, head falling back, breath shattering into pieces.

Another stroke.

"Emmrich—" she choked out.

He didn't answer.

Didn't stop.

Kept ravaging her — tongue licking and swirling, mouth open and hot and slick as he worked her apart.

When her hips rolled, desperate for more, his hands pinned her to the table.

"Stay still," he murmured against her cunt. The vibration made her cry out. "Let me."

She let him.

Maker, she let him.

He worshipped her with his mouth.

Learned her.

Loved her.

Ruined her.

He found every spot that made her breath catch, every rhythm that made her thighs shake, and exploited them with obscene expertise. His pace never wavered — slow, deliberate, devastating. A torture made holy only by the fact that he adored it.

"You taste like sin," he growled against her, his voice soaked in heat. "And I intend to drown in it."

Like a sailor wrecking his ship upon the rocky shore at his siren's song.

When he flattened his tongue and circled her clit in the correct manner—

Her body locked, spasmed — her cry raw and unrestrained as she came hard against his mouth, pleasure blinding and brutal. Her hands flew to his hair, her thighs squeezed around his head, and still — still — he didn't stop.

He held her there — licking and lapping and groaning like she was wine and he'd been parched for centuries. He drank every tremble from her bones, every twitch from her hips, every aftershock her body gave.

Only when she collapsed, trembling and spent, back against the table, did he lift his head.

His mouth was slick.

His eyes…

Fuck .

They burned.

Not with lust.

Not just lust.

With possession .

With devotion .

With obsession .

He stared up at her, chest rising and falling, and said, softly, reverently—

"My darling girl."

She barely had time to breathe.

Her legs still shook. Her pulse throbbed in places she hadn't known existed.

And he — Emmrich — rose slowly from between her legs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and observed her. Hands resting on his thighs, watching her. Like the king, he was like the beast who'd claimed his prize.

And wasn't nearly finished yet.

***

Rook lay sprawled in front of him — flushed, panting, dripping. Stockings were still seductively in place. Heaving breasts bared temptingly over the confines of her bra. The lamp behind her softly flickered upon her skin, dusted in sweat like glittering stars.

Emmrich's mouth had left her soaked, panting, aching—and yet, still wanting.

Emmrich rolled his chair closer, shifting his position between her legs. Instead, he kissed the inside of her right thigh once, tenderly, then again, harder. The next kiss was a bite. She gasped and tried to move, but his palms flattened against her hips. He sucked the flesh into his mouth, dragging his teeth across the delicate skin, and when he pulled back, a blooming mark remained in his wake.

"You'll feel that later," he murmured, eyes flicking up to hers. "You'll think of me every time you sit down."

She bit her lip, already trembling.

His mouth continued its path of destruction—suckling, biting, kissing—along the soft insides of her thighs. The marks he left weren't delicate. They were bruises. Shameless. Possessive. Carved into her skin like a brand. By the time he reached the juncture of her legs, she was shaking, breath shallow, eyes half-lidded with need.

Emmrich shifted again, still seated in his chair, but now leaning in as he brought one hand up between her legs. Two fingers brushed against her entrance, slick with the aftermath of his tongue. He groaned at the feel of it.

"So wet for me," he said, voice low, reverent. "Open your legs wider."

She did, without hesitation.

He traced her slowly, teasing, spreading the moisture over her folds before slipping a single finger inside.

Her body clenched down immediately, back arching, mouth parting in a silent cry. He watched—fixated—as she took him in, the rhythm of her breath stuttering as he pumped his finger slowly, deliberately. Then he slid in a second.

"Look at that," he muttered, almost to himself. "You take my fingers so well, my dear girl. Exactly as I predicted."

"Ah—fuck—!"

Her cry echoed off the conference room walls, and Emmrich's jaw tensed at the sound — at the way her back arched, hips jerking, mouth parted in that perfect, desperate O.

He curled his fingers.

Once.

Twice.

Slow at first. Intentional. Searching — until he found it.

That spot.

She gasped — loud and sharp — and her hand flew to her chest, grabbing at her own breast, fingers digging in, thumb swiping over her nipple like she couldn't stop herself.

He groaned — low and broken — from his seat, eyes locked on the sight of her touching herself as she writhed around his fingers.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice wrecked. "Fucking yourself on my hand and playing with your tits like a desperate little thing."

She whimpered, legs shaking. Her other hand came up to her mouth, trying to muffle the noises spilling out of her, but he wasn't having it.

"Don't you dare hide from me," he growled, thrusting harder, deeper. "I want to see all of it. All of you."

His fingers worked her in slow, deep thrusts, finding the spot that made her legs tremble, over and over again. Each time he hit it, her slick noises filled the room louder. He saw her come undone—noticed her lips part, her throat strain, her stomach flutter with tension as she tried and failed to hold back.

"Do you know how many times I've imagined this?" he asked, not stopping. "Having you here. Spread out for me on this table, like a feast. Hearing the sounds you make when I touch you."

She cried out as he added a second finger.

"Mine," he said, voice ragged now. "You are mine. And I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

Every breath Rook took was a gasp, every shift of Emmrich's fingers another spike of unbearable pleasure. Her body begged for it—hips rising to meet him, thighs shaking, heat pooling low and tight in her belly.

And then—

He stopped.

Her eyes flew open, throat aching with a strangled moan of protest. He withdrew his fingers slowly, purposefully, glistening with her arousal, and held them up in the low light.

"Not yet," he said calmly, licking one finger clean as her chest rose and fell like she'd run a marathon. "You're not ready."

"Emmrich—" Her voice broke, hoarse, hips arching toward him instinctively. "Please, I was—"

"I know," he said, utterly composed. "I felt it. The way you started to tighten around me. The way your thighs tried to close. You were right there, weren't you?"

She nodded frantically, trying to chase his touch again, but he leaned back in the chair, spreading his knees and observing her like she was something he was studying.

Owning .

"Good," he said, almost lazily. "That's exactly where I want you. Right on the edge. Shaking, soaked, desperate."

He gripped her thighs again and tugged her back toward him, slowly, dragging her ass to the edge of the table with his hands firm on her hips. He leaned in and kissed the inside of her thigh again, right over a bruise he'd left minutes earlier. She whimpered.

"You'll come when I say," he murmured, lips brushing her sensitive skin. "Not before."

She wanted to argue. Her body screamed for it. But when he slid his fingers back inside her—slow and deep—she cried out again, body already wound so tight that it took almost nothing to bring her back to that edge..

Pushed her until her moans turned breathless, until her hips bucked up and her fingers clawed at the polished table surface—but just as her walls began to clench, just as she teetered on the brink, he stopped again.

She sobbed.

"I need —"

"No, Ivy." His voice turned darker, firmer. "You want . And I own what you crave. Only I know what you need ."

He kissed her again—tongue darting out to sample her briefly, wickedly—before pulling back with an infuriating smirk.

"You'll come when I tell you," he whispered, dragging a knuckle between her folds. "And not a moment before. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, trembling. Her nipples peaked through the thin lace of her bra, her legs limp and open, utterly wrecked already—and he hadn't even fucked her yet.

"I want you ravaged by me, " he said softly, his fingers stroking her entrance once more, slow and coaxing. "Over and over until you forget your own name—but only when I say."

Emrich plunged his fingers back in, curling them just so, and edged her all over again.

She was shaking.

The tension in Rook's body coiled tighter with each stroke of his fingers. She was slick and flushed, her skin glowing with arousal and restraint, breath coming in sharp, broken gasps. Her thighs twitched with every movement, and Emmrich drank it all in.

She was divine like this—undone, desperate, his.

"Please," she whimpered, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the table. "Please, Emmrich…."

He didn't stop this time.

He fucked her with his fingers, deep and relentless, curling them just right to stroke that sweet, swollen spot inside her. His other hand held her thigh firm, spreading her open wider for him so he could watch her come apart—so he could see everything.

"That's it," he rasped, eyes locked on where his fingers disappeared into her. "Take it. Look how greedy you are for me. Look at this soaked little cunt."

She cried out, arching violently. Her body was slick with sweat now, her curls damp at the temples, her stomach trembling. She was so close again that she couldn't breathe.

He leaned over her, still fucking her with his fingers, and pressed his mouth to her ear.

"Come for me," he growled. "Now, Ivy. Let me see it. Let me feel it."

Her body obeyed before her mind did.

It hit like lightning.

Her walls clamped down around his fingers, pulse after pulse crashing through her like a tidal wave. She screamed his name, bucking and gasping, her thighs squeezing around his wrist as her orgasm tore through her—raw, wet, intense. She leaned over his hand, down his fingers, over the polished edge of the table, her body convulsing, unravelling for him in the most delicious display he'd ever seen.

" Fuck, " Emmrich hissed, watching the way her slick glistened on the wood grain, watching her tremble through the aftershocks. His cock strained against his trousers, painfully hard, but he didn't touch himself. Not yet.

He just watched her fall apart.

Watched the tears form in the corners of her eyes. Watched her chest rise and fall. Watched her nipples straining under the lace, her thighs still twitching.

He eased his fingers out of her slowly, reverently, soaked with her arousal. He held them up again, letting the dim light catch on the slickness that coated his hand.

"You've never looked more perfect than you do right now," he said softly.

Slowly, he licked his fingers clean, savouring her taste with a low groan in his throat.

"Delicious," he muttered. "Every time you come, you become sweeter."

She couldn't speak. She could barely move.

And Emmrich smiled.

He had ruined her.

Exactly as he promised.

***

Rook's limbs had gone soft, limp across the table, her chest heaving with each shallow breath. Her thighs remained open—barely parted, twitching—and Emmrich stood between them, dragging his hand down her inner thigh, over the love bites and bruises he'd painted there. Possession marked every inch of her.

"You think I'm done with you?" he asked, his voice low and sinful. "After the way you came all over my hand?"

He leaned forward, lips brushing her ear, his hips pressed to the edge of the table.

"No, darling. I'm only just getting started. I want one more," he growled. "Give me one more. Exactly like this."

She whimpered as he reached for her again, dragging two fingers through the slick mess still pooling between her thighs. He groaned at the feel of it—hot and wet and ruined.

"Look at this." His tone dropped darker, breath hot against her cheek. "Fucking dripping. You made a mess all over my table, my dear girl. Anyone else would be ashamed."

He brought his fingers to her lips. She parted them automatically, tasting herself on his skin as he pressed his digits into her mouth.

"But not you," he purred, watching her suck them greedily. "You like being filthy for me, don't you?"

She nodded, eyes dazed, tongue tracing every trace of herself from his hand.

He pulled them free, wet and shining, and trailed them down her jaw, down her throat, between the valley of her breasts.

"I should bend you over the table next," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Make you see your reflection in the glass while I fuck you. Make you see what a desperate little thing you become when I touch you."

He cupped her breasts through the lace, thumbs brushing over the stiff peaks beneath.

"Or maybe I'll just lay you flat again and use your mouth this time," he mused, gaze dropping to her lips. "Let you choke on my cock until your makeup runs. Would you like that, Ivy?"

A shiver passed through her at the rough edge in his voice—barely leashed hunger behind the silk.

"You want to be used, don't you?" he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. "You want to be my sweet little toy, fucked until you forget your name."

His hand slid between her thighs again, fingers slipping effortlessly into her wet heat, and she arched with a strangled moan.

" There she is. My wicked, filthy girl," he growled. "Still so ready. So greedy."

He curled his fingers and began to move again, slow, ruthless strokes that built the tension back instantly, too soon, too sharp after her last orgasm.

"Tell me how badly you need me. Tell me how many times you want to come tonight."

"I—I don't know," she gasped, already trembling again.

"Yes, you do," he snapped. "Say it. Tell me what you want, my darling," he said, voice sharp with command now.

Her head lolled back, voice breaking as she moaned, "As many times as you'll let me."

Emmrich grinned, feral now.

"Good girl."

And he kept going.

"Wait—" Rook started, her voice raw, her body still shivering from the orgasms he'd just dragged out of her.

He cut her off with a wicked smile. "I said I wasn't done."

He pressed her thighs open wider, bruised fingers gripping her firmly, thumbs spreading her folds so he could see everything.

"I wanted one more," he murmured, almost reverent. "One more like this. Spread wide for me. Screaming. Coming all over my hand. Across my face. Before I bend you over this table and fill you with every inch."

Then his mouth was on her again, lapping at her.

She screamed.

There was no buildup this time—no soft strokes or teasing flicks. He devoured her like a man possessed, tongue working in precise, devastating movements as he sucked her clit between his lips and groaned at the taste. She was already so sensitive, her nerves raw and buzzing, and his mouth was ruthless. Overstimulated, she thrashed against the table, crying out with each swirl of his tongue, but he only gripped her harder and held her there.

He wanted it. Needed it.

"Come for me again," he growled into her heat, breath hot and slick with her. "Soak my fucking mouth, Ivy. I want to drown in you."

And she did.

With a broken sob, her body shattered a second time—harder, messier, her thighs clamping around his head, her back arching as she came with a cry that echoed off the boardroom walls. Her slick coated his tongue, spilt over his lips, and leaked down onto the desk again. She couldn't stop it—didn't want to. She gave him everything.

Emmrich moaned against her, licking her through it, swallowing every drop like a reward.

When she finally collapsed, trembling and wrecked, he rose to his feet—his face wet, his eyes dark with triumph. He leaned over her, hands braced on the table beside her head, and kissed her deeply, making sure she could taste herself on his tongue.

"Now," he whispered against her lips, voice ragged with restraint, "you're ready."

He stepped back, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements, the sound of leather sliding through the loops low and ominous.

"Now, my dear girl, I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to make you mine."

He smirked down at her wrecked body, flushed and twitching, still glistening between the thighs.

"And I promise…" he murmured, tugging her hips into place, "you're going to feel every inch of me."

She was still trembling, breath hitching in short, unsteady bursts, when she propped herself up on her elbows.

Her body was flushed, glowing, thighs parted and slick — wrecked from the inside out — but it was him she was looking at now.

Emmrich stood at the head of the table, chest rising and falling under his shirt, belt undone, trousers shoved low on his hips. The fabric of his boxers was soaked through — stained dark where his arousal had leaked out uncontrollably while he'd worked her with his hands and mouth.

And fuck, he was hard.

So hard, it looked like it hurt.

Her gaze fell, heavy and unhurried, and he allowed it.

He wanted her to see.

With his gaze locked on hers, he brought his soaked hand down — still glistening with the mess of her orgasm — and wrapped it around himself.

Rook let out a sound she didn't mean to make, deep and breathless.

Because he didn't rush.

He rubbed it in.

Long, slow strokes over the thick length of his cock, coating himself in her, smearing her slick down the shaft, over the head, fingers curling tight like he was losing the ability to breathe.

"Fuck," he muttered, jaw clenching as his hips flexed into his own hand. "You did this."

His voice was rough. Ruined.

"How you made me ache for you - just watching you fall apart," he rasped, still stroking himself with his hand soaked in her release — slow, deliberate, absolutely wrecked.

Rook couldn't look away. She was still spread open on the table, propped on her elbows, breasts rising and falling, watching him lose that last shred of composure.

His eyes burned into hers as he stepped closer, the head of his cock brushing against her inner thigh now, hot and slick. Her hips rolled without thought, inviting him in, her whole body still humming, trembling, aching for more.

He reached for her hip.

She braced herself.

Their bodies aligned.

He was about to press into her — she could feel the pulsing heat of his swollen head against her.

Then —

BANG .

A flicker.

A shadow passed across the narrow glass slit in the conference room door.

Fast. Fleeting. But there.

Emmrich stilled mid-motion, like a puppet with its strings cut. His head snapped toward the door, eyes narrowing, chest rising once, sharp, shallow. The silence that followed was total. Only Rook's breathing filled the air, shaky, uneven. The table beneath her creaked in protest.

Then he moved.

Not the man who'd just had his hands all over her, not the one who kissed like he needed to ruin her. This man was something else entirely.

"Get dressed."

His voice was ice, measured—the same voice that had made seasoned board members flinch in meetings. She'd heard it before, but never like this. Never pointed at her.

The belt he'd discarded earlier hissed through the loops of his trousers as he yanked it free. His shirt was tucked into place. No tie. No fastenings. Fury in motion. Not embarrassment. Not guilt. Rage .

He stormed toward the door, eyes scanning with a predator's clarity. He flung it open without hesitation and stepped into the corridor. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The hall was empty. Still, someone had been there. He knew it.

"Coward," he muttered, voice low, teeth clenched. "You fucking coward."

Behind him, Rook scrambled off the table, the heat in her veins suddenly replaced with ice. The pleasure he'd coaxed from her minutes ago evaporated, leaving her skin flushed, her legs unsteady, and her pulse racing in her throat. She grabbed her dress and yanked it over her head, fingers fumbling with the zipper, every breath a jagged edge.

Who had seen?  

What had they seen?

Outside, Emmrich moved like a ghost—soundless, deadly. She heard the door to the stairwell swing open. He was hunting now, not just for answers, but for whoever had dared to look at her, as if she were up for the taking.

The conference room swam before her eyes. Rook caught herself on the chair, her body feeling foreign. A sharp electronic beep followed.

Once.

Then again.

And it repeated in sharp successions.

Her head snapped toward the panel by the door. The building's internal security system blinked red, low and steady.

**Secure Storage Alert – First Floor Archive. Unauthorised Access.**

Her stomach dropped. She crossed the room in three quick strides, her heels echoing off glass and tile. No time to think. No time to wait.

She grabbed her phone and bolted for the stairs. Her legs burned as she descended, the aftershocks of their encounter tangling with adrenaline. At the base, the hallway lights flickered to life. That's when she saw it.

The archive room door hung wide open.

Not cracked.

Not ajar.

Wide. Fucking. Open.

Her breath hitched in her chest. The floor inside looked as if it had been torn apart. Boxes were dumped sideways, papers scattered across the tiles—ledgers, reports, confidential files—pages fluttered in the stale air like dead leaves.

She stepped inside. Some shelves stood intact; others had been pried open. One shelf near the back stood gaping, a section marked Q1–Q4 Executive. Empty. Not a single folder remained.

And she knew . She knew what had been there— the stolen files. The ones yanked from Johanna's office, the ones that connected her and Solas to everything.

Gone.

She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her pulse pounded in her throat as her eyes scanned the ruin. Whoever had done this had been fast, clean, and precise. They'd known exactly what to take.

She was reaching for her phone when footsteps echoed behind her—firm, familiar.

She turned.

Emmrich stood in the doorway, his gaze burning a path from her crumpled dress to the wreckage behind her. His face changed—not with lust. Not even with fury. But with something worse.

Cold. Quiet. Calculated.

He stepped forward into the dimly lit room, his voice steady and devoid of emotion.

"Who opened this?"

"I have no idea," she replied, her voice trembling slightly as she struggled to steady her breath. "The alert went off right after you left. I came straight down as soon as I saw it."

His eyes meticulously swept the room, taking in every detail with calculated precision. When they landed on the back shelf, tension coiled in his shoulders, betraying the calm facade.

Her voice broke through the suffocating silence, laced with anxiety. "The files... the ones from Johanna's office. They're gone."

He remained silent, fixated on the empty shelf as if it had personally betrayed him, each second stretching into an unbearable eternity.

Finally, he turned to her, eyes sharp and demanding.

"You didn't touch anything?"

"No. I just—"

He closed the distance between them in two swift strides, his hands clasping her arms — not with aggression, but with a firm, anchoring grip.

"Are you hurt?"

The mask of his calm demeanour cracked for a brief moment.

She shook her head vigorously. "No. Just shaken. I didn't expect—"

"You shouldn't have come down here alone." His voice dropped, low and gravelly, revealing an undercurrent of fear that he struggled to suppress. "What if someone was still here?"

"I wasn't going to sit around and do nothing." Her voice rose slightly, desperation creeping in.

"You were supposed to stay where I left you."

The words hung in the air, heavy and thick with unresolved tension.

Not cruel.

Not cold.

But tinged with desperation.

"I saw the alert. What was I supposed to do, Emmrich? Watch the system beep while someone erased your entire archive?"

"Yes."

His response wasn't a shout; it was worse — a barely audible utterance filled with raw emotion.

"You should've waited. For me ."

The air between them crackled with unspoken feelings, a tempest brewing beneath the surface.

She inhaled slowly, her heart racing. "I didn't think—"

"No," he cut her off, turning away sharply. "You didn't. You never do when you're scared. You just move." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's what I admire most about you. And the thing I hate most when I'm not beside you."

That stopped her in her tracks.

He turned back to face her, his expression cut from something sharp — anger simmering just beneath the surface. But there was also something softer, more vulnerable: fear.

"We don't know who did this or if they're still watching us." He crouched down among the debris, his fingers sifting through the chaotic pile of fallen files. "We need to find out exactly what's missing," he insisted, his voice turning serious, focused once again on the task at hand. "They may have left something behind."

Rook swallowed her guilt and nodded, pushing aside her worries.

Approaching one of the shelves, she carefully traced the spines of the remaining files, her hand trembling from a mix of fear and anxiety. "I catalogued everything," she murmured, almost to herself.

Emmrich glanced over at her. "When did you do that?"

"This morning, after we stripped Johanna's office. Neve and I logged every file we moved into the archive," she explained, pulling a folded page from her phone case. "I made a second copy for the secure drive, but this—" She spread the paper flat on a nearby box. "These were the originals."

He crouched beside her, their shoulders barely touching, as they read the list together, the tension between them palpable yet unbroken.

The weight of the situation didn't escalate; instead, it folded inward, cold and calculated.

Then — as if drawn by an unseen force — he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. It wasn't meant to comfort; it was something different.

A tether to the moment.

His hand moved from her shoulder to her elbow, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of her inner arm. His voice lowered, barely above a whisper.

"I shouldn't have left you."

Looking up at him, she felt a pang of confusion and concern. "You were unaware—"

"I should've." His gaze remained locked on the list, a storm brewing in his eyes. "I should've known someone would come for this."

"Emmrich… you weren't to know." She pressed, anxiety bubbling beneath her calm exterior.

Before he could respond —

His phone rang, slicing through their fragile connection.

They both froze, startled.

Unknown Number.

His entire demeanour shifted, wiped clean of emotion.

"I need to take this," he said, rising abruptly, his posture tense.

"Wait—"

"I'll be right back," he assured her, his voice firm as he walked out the door.

When the door shut behind him, Rook stood there, staring after him, the silence suddenly deafening, pressing in on her.

Turning back to the shelves, she began searching the mess, her list still clutched like a lifeline in her hand as if hoping the boxes would show how to appear if she searched for them hard enough.

"Fuck! All of it," she whispered, her heart sinking. "Gone."

At that moment, the door creaked open.

Emmrich stepped back inside. But the man who had kissed her, touched her, even scolded her, felt as if he had vanished.

His voice was sharp, cold as a blade.

"I'm taking you home."

"Emmrich—what happened?" She demanded, her voice laced with concern and confusion.

He didn't answer. Instead, he picked up her bag and handed it to her with mechanical precision. No warmth. No fight.

Only steely resolve.

And something lurking beneath it, a distinct current of fear.

***

The street outside blurred past as the car's engine purred softly, cocooning them in an uneasy silence.

Roo sat there in the passenger seat, staring down at her hands resting in her lap, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on her.

He didn't speak, not even when she glanced over at the red light, hoping for a fleeting moment of connection — a reassuring gaze from him to ease her worries.

He remained impassive.

His hands clenched the steering wheel tightly, as if trying to strangle the very fabric of reality. His eyes flitted to the rearview mirror once, then twice, ever vigilant.

Watching.

Not driving.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she broke the silence. "Who was on the phone?"

A heavy silence hung in the air.

He eventually responded, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.

"Someone who shouldn't have this number."

No further explanation was offered, leaving an unsettling tension that weighed heavily on her heart.

Emmrich pulled up outside Rook's apartment building. He removed his seatbelt and turned to face her, taking her hands in his, and he kissed each one in turn.

"Let me know when you are safe upstairs." He moved a hand to cup her cheek and leaned in for a kiss. Not frantic, or full of desire like it had been, not even thirty minutes before. It was as though he needed to do the act so he could breathe. He rested his forehead against hers.

"I wish we had met sooner."

And he leaned over and opened the door for her to get out.

***

The key turned with a familiar click in the lock. She pushed the door closed, ensuring it was locked securely behind her. The bolt slid into place with a reassuring sound.

Safe.

Alone.

She leaned back against the wooden door for a moment, taking a breath as she held her phone in her hand.

FadeApp :

ROOK : Door's locked. I'm in. Let me know when you get home. xx

The message was marked as read, but there was no response.

Staring at the screen until her vision blurred, she finally turned away, kicked off her shoes, and made her way to the window, and Emmrich's car could be seen disappearing down the street before he took a left turn.

Rook showered and changed for bed, her phone on loud, she waited for his message.

But nothing came.

LATER – 23:22

Still unable to find sleep, she tried one last time.

ROOK : Are you okay? You were quiet when you left x

The message was marked as read by 23:23, yet there was still no reply.

With a sigh, she turned off the light and lay back in the darkness, the gentle glow of her phone screen still illuminating the space beside her, a faint beacon of connection in the shadowy stillness.

And Rook lay there, waiting for an answer that wouldn't come.

Chapter Text

The flat was quiet—a deep, unnerving silence that prickled the skin. Soft, watery grey light filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting long, distorted shadows on the worn wood floor. The city murmured with its usual low and uncaring sounds: a bus wheezing at the curb, distant traffic humming, and a bird too stubborn to accept the rain.

Rook lay still in the sheets, her limbs tangled, the faint echo of last night still warm on her skin. Before she could think, her hand reached out, unlocked her phone on the nightstand with a swipe of her thumb. The light was too bright in the morning hush. She went straight into FadeApp, to the chat thread with Emmrich.

Still no reply.

ROOK: Door’s locked. I’m in. Let me know when you get home x 

Emmrich watched as she climbed the steps to her building, her headlights off and shrouded in the street’s quiet. Waited until she received her message before driving off into the night. His kiss was lingering, as if he never wanted it to end—his thumb caressed her cheek, his lips gently brushing against hers in a slow, tender motion that felt more like a farewell than a sign of longing or desire.

Below it sat her final message from the night before. Sent twenty minutes later. And she knew that was enough time for him to get home. Hours have passed since the message was sent. Rook clicked the info icon and saw that the message had been viewed in under a minute.

ROOK: Are you okay? You were quiet when you left x

His name showed he was online, he was in the app at that moment and had chosen not to reply. Not even a simple, “Yes.” 

Frowning, Rook scrolled back up through their chat. He always replied, sometimes even twice, before she could respond. For the last couple of days, he was the first and last person to message, responding to her messages almost immediately, regardless of whether he was in meetings or if it was early hours of the morning.

The silence pressed harder than any words. She knew he’d been annoyed last night when he found her in the archive room. He was quiet with her on the drive home, yet he still kissed her.

Rook stared at the screen, feeling that familiar weight blooming behind her ribs. Something sour. Something fragile. Her thumb hovered for a moment—she could double-text, follow up, ask again—

No. 

She locked the screen and dropped the phone onto the sheets. The dull thud echoed louder than it should have in the stillness. 

“Fine,” she muttered aloud to no one.

Throwing back the covers, she crossed the cold floor on bare feet and padded into the bathroom. The mirror greeted her with sharp cheekbones and sleepy eyes. She examined the bruise on her cheek. Poked it, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh. Just turned the shower on hot and stepped beneath the spray.

Water rushed over her shoulders, down her spine, washing away her thoughts. She tilted her face up into it, hoping to melt the ache in her chest. But it clung—bitter and quiet.

Did he regret last night? Was I just a moment of weakness? Was I not enough?

She pressed her hands to the tiled wall and exhaled through clenched teeth as she noticed a bruise blossoming on her hip like a shadow kissed into her skin. She hadn’t noticed it until now—but there it was, faint and purplish, shaped like a memory. His grip. His need. In that moment, he pulled her back against him, as if he couldn’t stand the distance.

Her breath caught in her throat. 

With gentleness, she touched the bruise. Not exactly pain. Only heat. 

Rook shut her eyes. Her hands moved to the ache where he had marked her with his mouth. She tried to forget the feeling of his prayer-like whispers, how she had fallen apart under his touch, on his table, by his kiss. The way he looked at her, as though she could be his downfall.

And now, he was ignoring her.

***

By the time she stepped out of the shower, the softness had burned away. 

She was steel again.

After a brisk towel-dry, she opened her drawer without pausing. No lilac today. No lace with soft intent. Today, she chose red: defiant, brazen, and blood-bright. She wore a matching set that clung to her figure like a second skin, a subtle armour known only to herself.

She skipped wearing tights. Let the air kiss her legs. Let her remember she chose this—how to feel, what to reveal. The bruises would fade, but today, it was hers.

Her blouse was crisp and black, with a sharp collar that accentuated her chest. The fitted grey skirt skimmed the top of her thighs—neither modest nor bold. Her heels clicked with finality as she moved across the room, assembling her outfit for the after-work party, stacking her makeup, and pulling out her red dress to hang on the wardrobe door. The bag and shoes were already on her bed. Lastly, she put a bottle of pre-made fruit cocktail in the fridge to chill throughout the day. Her hair was twisted into a high, glossy knot, knowing it would be full of volume and waves for the evening.

With one last look at her phone, she shoved it into her bag.

“Your move, Volkarin,” she said, her voice cold and dry.

And she walked out the door.

***

As Rook walked through the bank, the soft clicks of Rook’s heels resounded and echoed through the marble foyer, disrupting the silence of the morning. The air smelled faintly of polish and freshly brewed coffee, just as it always did before the building filled with people, noise, and performance. Shoulders square, bag in hand, and lips set in a neutral line, she moved with a practised ease. 

But beneath the surface?

Her veins burned with fire.

With steady hands, she kept her chin held high. The ghost of his touch remained with her, along with a soft throb from the bruise on her hip, just under her skirt’s waistband. She walked with an air of indifference, as if she hadn’t sent him a text, as if he hadn’t seen it and ignored it, as if their intimate actions the previous night hadn’t held any significance.

The door to the boardroom loomed ahead. Her fingers tightened around her bag strap. Inside sat the long table—its shine pristine, every chair perfectly aligned. It was the same table he’d laid her across less than twelve hours ago, his mouth on her thighs, his voice like gravel murmuring filth and reverence in equal measure. The memory clung to her like static, but she didn’t let it show. 

Myrna and Vorgoth flanked Emmrich at the far end of the table, all three already seated. To his right, a space — then Neve, Lucanis, and Varric in a quiet cluster. And on the left…

Zara.

Perched with deliberate poise, legs crossed, one manicured hand resting on the table as if she belonged there. Her mouth curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

Rook’s stomach turned to ice.

Why is she here?

Zara’s eyes raked over her like chipped glass. “Oh, Rook,” she purred. “Last one in. What a surprise!”

“First time for everything.” Rook didn’t break stride. “Unlike you, I don’t need an audience to make an impression.”

Zara’s smirk twitched wider. “We all play to our strengths.”

Across the room, Emmrich sat in cold elegance. His waistcoat was immaculate, cufflinks catching the light, and not a single hair was out of place. His expression? Blank. Not unreadable—just empty. He didn’t look at her.

“Let’s begin,” he said, his tone clipped. No greeting. No warmth. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement. He hadn’t even waited for her to sit down before he launched into numbers, projections, and operational realignments—dry, detached, clinical.

Still, Rook played her part. She sat straight, legs crossed, her voice cool as she responded to a logistics query. “If we consolidate the outreach into a single channel, you’ll achieve clarity. Two weeks’ turnaround, max.”

Emmrich didn’t look up. “And the risk?”

“We’re already bleeding engagement. Waiting longer will only open more holes in the hull.”

Varric gave a soft, approving grunt beside her. Emmrich finally looked at her, just for a second, his eyes cool and calculating.

“Very well,” Emmrich said tersely. “Two weeks.”

That was it. No smile, no irritation—just flat, professional acceptance. Rook’s heart beat louder than she wanted to admit.

Zara leaned forward on her elbows. “Emmrich, wouldn’t you agree that the optics of a shift like this could destabilise public confidence?”

There was a pause. Rook didn’t turn her head, but she could feel the vapidity pouring from Zara’s mouth like perfume. 

Emmrich exhaled softly. “I think our clients are less concerned with optics, Miss Renata, and more with results.”

Zara blinked. “Right, of course. Just trying to anticipate concerns.”

“You may find fewer arise if you focus on solving them.”

The temperature in the room dipped. Lucanis looked down at his tablet, hiding a smirk. Rook didn’t smile, but her knuckles relaxed around her pen. She kept her gaze ahead—dignified, unbothered. It pleased her to know that she wasn’t the only one suffering from Emmrich’s cold tone.

When the meeting finally ended, she rose in one fluid motion, gathering her things with precision. As she passed the head of the table, she felt his gaze on her legs—hot and hard, as if it might burn a hole through her skirt. She didn’t meet his eyes, but her voice, as she passed, was low and icy.

“Thank you for the productive meeting, Professor.”

She heard the tick in his jaw, but no reply came.

And that was it—no touch, no look, nothing to betray that he’d had his mouth on her skin hours ago. She walked out without a backwards glance, but she could still feel him watching.

***

Rook stood in the dual-locked security room, ready to enter the back office where the cash machines were located, when she heard Bellara exclaim, “Why is it beeping?”

“I found a screw,” Harding’s voice replied. “But I’m guessing that’s a bad thing?”

Rook walked into the secure room, and both women turned to her.

“Oh, thank the Maker you’re here!” Bellara came close to squealing. 

“This old thing is falling apart,” Harding exclaimed, kicking the machine. A piece of plastic fell off from beneath the unit they had pulled out.

Rook leaned over, arms around her stomach, trying to stifle a laugh. “Oh, don’t! I need to pee as it is.”

“There’s a bucket behind you. “That’ll do,” Harding quipped.

“Seriously, don’t! It’s like, you know how some days just push you to the edge?” Rook responded.

“You don’t know whether you’re going to laugh or cry?” the shorter woman grinned.

“Yep, that’s the one.” Rook removed her heels and jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and took off the small pieces of jewellery she wore.  “Where’s the sheet?” she asked, but Bellara was already fanning it out on the floor and moving it under the machine. “If this hunk of junk falls on me, make sure it takes me out in one go,” Rook joked.  She got on the floor and began moving the contraptions and runners underneath. “Am I looking for anything specific, or is it just not working?”

“It keeps saying there’s something jammed, but we can’t find anything,” Harding explained.

Rook tinkered with the machine, shifting parts until she exclaimed, “Oh, I see the little bugger! I don’t know if I can... ah, damn it... wait... I got it! Haha!” She triumphantly held up a small piece of paper, her arm poking out from under the machine.

“All that effort for that?” Harding snatched the tiny fragment of a paper from her. “That’s a piece of a note.”

“Please tell me you’ve already found the rest of it?“ Rook questioned.

“Ummmm...” Bellara started. “We’ve checked everywhere, Rook. Honest”

At that moment, the back office door opened, and Varric’s voice resounded in the room. Seeing Rook’s feet sticking out from under the ATM, the shorter man inquired, “Everything okay in there, kid?”

“Perfect.” The sarcasm laced her words. “Hey, maybe we can ask the new CEO to invest in some decent machinery—ones that don’t jam every five minutes and don’t nearly take your fingers off.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Varric replied.

Rook reached out her hand. “I need the key and a screwdriver.” She was handed both of the items.

The others stood back and watched as Rook muttered to herself. “Okay, there’s nothing glamorous about the angle I need to get into.” She rolled over, getting on all fours to bring her head closer to another section after opening it with the key.

“Rook, you should be careful.” I don’t think any of us wants to see what you had for breakfast,” Harding joked. “Although I will say it again: nice ass.” There was a chuckle, but it didn’t last as a SNAP echoed through the room.

“Shit,” escaped Rook in a hiss. “Okay, that’ll be it. It ought to be working now.”

The other piece of paper floated to the ground as Rook climbed out from underneath, leaving the key and screwdriver on the floor. She held her left hand away from her body, blood welling between her fingers.

“Oh, Rook!” Bellara gasped.

“It’s fine,” Rook replied, turning away. “I caught it, but there was no other way to get the jam out.” She held her hand away from her. “I don’t want to stain my clothes.”

“Damn, kid!” Varric exclaimed, taking her hand. “You two get the machine closed up and see if it works. If not, no one is to put their hand anywhere inside it. I’ll arrange for someone to come out and fix it. And you,” his attention was on his niece now, “you pain in my ass, get your shoes on and head upstairs to the break room. The first-aid kit is up there. Let’s get this looked at before I fill out an injury report.”

“I’m okay—”

“Do as you’re told, kid.”

It felt like she was nine again, recalling the time she had fallen off the garden wall and cut herself. Despite her uncle’s warnings, she hadn’t listened and continued to climb.

Varric led Rook to the top floor, using a security card to open a door. He then guided her across the hallway into the break room. However, upon entering the area, she discovered it was not empty. Emmrich leaned against the kitchenette counter as the kettle boiled behind him.

“Sit,” Varric ordered as he went to retrieve the first aid kit, muttering under his breath as he went.

Rook heaved a sigh and sat at the nearest table, keeping her hand from her body, all the while feeling the distinct prickle of hazel eyes boring into her back. She had made sure to sit facing away from Emmrich.

“Rook?” For a moment, she thought she detected a layer of concern in his voice.

“I’m okay. Honestly, Varric is just overreacting.” She held her injured hand as if to guard it from Emmrich, but he reached her, and he saw another drop of crimson hit the table.

“Over my dead body I am.” Varric dropped the first aid kit down, and Rook rolled her eyes as he opened it. “Remove your hand so we can see.” But the younger woman sat there stubbornly and stared between the two men.

Rook closed her eyes and sighed as Emmrich reached and pried her fingers apart. The touch of his skin hurt more than the cut itself, and her cheeks flushed.

“Hm,” he said, turning her hand over. “I’ll go wash my hands.” He removed his rings and bracelets before rolling up his sleeves and heading to the sink. “I can handle this from here,” Emmrich’s tone was firm and authoritative as he addressed Varric.

“Alright, kid. I’ll get the accident book ready. Come and see me later.” With that, Varric left.

Rook sat in uncomfortable silence, avoiding his hazel eyes and unable to look at him as he came back to the table. Drawing a chair closer, he sat down with his legs on either side of her. He removed several items from the kit to treat her wound.

As he assessed the cut on her palm, which was severe and had taken a chunk of skin off, he carefully cleaned the blood from the rest of her hands.

“You ought to be more careful,” he said.

“You need to get us new machines.”

“A machine did this?” He paused, looking at her as if weighing her words.

“Yep. I got caught trying to retrieve a torn note.”

“I’ll look into it. I understand the models here are outdated.” He paused. “Is it always you who tends to them?

“Yep.”

“Because you want to, or because you’re asked?”

“What difference does it make?” Rook narrowed her eyes at him, and now she met his gaze.

“You seem too willing to put yourself in these situations.” Emmrich didn’t move when Rook winced again, but something in his gaze shifted, just barely. A soft narrowing, a faint crease on his brow.

“I was asked because I’m the only one who knows how to fix things around here.” Rook yanked her hand away, bitterness in her tone.

“Ivy,” he scolded, reaching for her hand again, but she held it out of reach. “You need to be more careful.” His words fell somewhere between reprimand and concern.

“I was being careful,” she spat.

“Clearly not enough.” He fired back, gripping her wrists and pulling her hand back to him. “Stop being so stubborn and let me finish.”

Her brow arched at his words, and her mind automatically drifted to the night before when he hadn’t gotten to finish. Thoughts of him between her thighs, the head of his thick cock brushing her entrance before they had been interrupted. She found herself wondering if he had tended to himself when he returned home, or that morning. She shook her head.

Fuck, Rook, you’re going down a dangerous path.

“What?” he asked, looking at her, but she couldn’t hold his gaze. It was as though he could tell where the thoughts had gone.

“Nothing,” she mumbled.

By now, Rook expected to be used to feeling like she was always second best. He had seen her, every inch. She came more times in one day with Emmrich than any other partner combined.

The antiseptic’s sting, his nearness, and the lingering touch of his fingers made her catch her breath. However, he offered no further comment. He wrapped the bandage around her hand quickly and neatly. He affixed the final strip of tape before letting go of her hand, in a manner that suggested he was dropping her. As if she were something to be thrown away. Something disposable.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

“You need to file a work injury report,” he said, standing from the chair and methodically tidying the bandages and antiseptic, returning the kit to its box. His tone was clipped. Controlled. “You’re not to handle anything mechanical again. We have an engineer for that. Stick to your role.”

Rook arched a brow. “Right. I’ll be sure to curtsy and ask for permission before touching anything with a moving part.”

He didn’t bite. Instead, his eyes narrowed.

“Part of my new role is to oversee the cash counter,” she added, lifting her chin, “including the machines.”

“I’m giving you an order.” His voice dropped an octave, quiet but firm — the kind of tone that brokered no argument. “One I expect you to follow.”

“Fine!” she said, standing and raising her hands. “Next time I will call an engineer.”

He stepped closer, gaze sharp. “Don’t test me, Miss Ingellvar. I’ve been indulgent. That doesn’t mean I’ve lost my spine.”

He took another step closer and Rook made her way to the door.

“Ivy?”

She stopped and turned to face him.

Emmrich’s face was unreadable. For a moment—just a breath—something passed between them.

Sadness. Unmistakable. Quiet. Raw. 

Then it vanished. 

“Us.” His eyes were cold—composed, distant. A glacier sealed behind glass. “It was a lapse in judgment,” he said flatly. “One that won’t happen again.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t let it show. Not in her voice. Not in her face. She would not give him the satisfaction.

“You’re right,” she said. “It was a mistake.”

No tremor. No blink.

Just two blades, drawn in silence—
—and buried deep without mercy.

She turned without another word, tucking her heart away like contraband, and walked out without looking back.

He let her go.

Chapter Text

The ladies’ restroom was mercifully empty.

Rook gripped the edge of the sink with her right hand, her knuckles pale. The sting of antiseptic still lingered in her bandaged hand. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Her reflection stared back at her: cheeks flushed, eyes too bright. She barely recognised herself.

“You’re right. It was a mistake.”

The words had escaped her before she could stop them—sharp, cold, meant to cut as deeply as he had. But they weren’t the truth.

And now?

Now she felt like she might fall apart.

She turned on the tap, letting the cold water rush over her right wrist, careful not to soak the bandage on her left. It helped, barely. Her fingers still trembled. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to breathe.

She didn’t cry.

Not in front of him. Not in that sterile break room with its humming fridge and clinical air. She had kept her chin high, her spine straight, and left without slamming the door.

She made it to the back stairwell, but the moment the door clicked shut behind her—the moment the chill of the hallway kissed her skin—she folded.

Rook gripped the railing and sank two steps down, slumping to the concrete like something deflated. Her chest felt tight, her ribs caging a heart that beat too hard. Her hand throbbed with every pulse.

The words rang in her skull: sharp, stupid, too much. You’re right. It was a mistake.

She shouldn’t have said that. She should have maintained a professional, polished, and unreachable demeanour. But he had made her come undone. He had dragged that vulnerable version of her out—trembling, gasping, raw—and now he wanted to pretend he hadn’t seen it.

He’d said it more than once over the past few days—Do you have any idea what you do to me? And yet today he chose silence over truth, distance over decency. He looked at her like she was just another line item on his to-do list. When he had the chance to explain, he called it a lapse in judgment.

She pressed her forehead to her knees.

Never good enough.

Everything inside her twisted: embarrassment, fury, shame, need, loss.

How could she still want him?

After all of it—the rejection, the guilt, the cowardice—her body still ached for him. Her lips still remembered how he tasted, and her skin still burned from the ghost of his hands.

She hated that about herself.

She hated him for starting something he didn’t intend to finish. Hated the silence, the unanswered messages, the way he walked past her like nothing had happened—like she hadn’t knelt for him, hadn’t fallen apart beneath his mouth, like he hadn’t whispered her name as if it meant something.

But worst of all, his words “Us. It was a lapse in judgment. One that won’t happen again.”

That had been worse than the silence.

She exhaled slowly, shakily, wiping her face with her uninjured hand. No tears, just that awful hollowness behind her eyes, as if something had cracked deep inside and was quietly leaking out.

She stood, fixed her blouse, smoothed her skirt, and reset her mouth into something sharp and polite.

Then she descended the stairs as if nothing had happened.

***

The office door clicked softly shut behind her. Rook stood still for a moment, not moving or breathing—just listening to the silence. Her sanctuary. Her cage. Four walls and silence pretending to be safety.

Sunlight fell in slanted lines across the desk, and dust motes hung in the air like suspended breath. She set her phone down without checking it. He’s not going to reply; she already knew that. Had known it all night. Still, she opened her inbox and saw two new customer queries. She flagged them for later, then clicked into the till discrepancy log and scrolled through the figures—lines and numbers blurred, collapsing into nonsense.

Her hand throbbed; the gauze was starting to itch beneath the tape. She pushed the mouse aside and braced both hands on the desk, her head hanging low between her shoulders. The air smelled faintly of paper and toner, but underneath it—like a phantom—she swore she could still smell him. That familiar spiced cologne, expensive and subtle, clung to her clothes like a bruise no one could see.

Taking a deep breath, she typed in her login and pulled up the shift calendar. She tried to adjust someone’s rota but clicked the wrong button three times in a row. “Get a grip,” she muttered, her voice sounding too loud in the small room.

Tugging the clip from her hair, she let it fall around her shoulders. She had worn it up on purpose, hoping he’d notice and remember how he had kissed her there. Bit her there. He did remember that she had seen the eyes that had trailed down her throat when he was tending to her hand, thinking she wasn’t paying him enough attention.

And he still chose to say nothing.

She typed out a message to Bellara, asking for the keycode report from yesterday, but deleted it. She rewrote it, then deleted it again. Every time she stopped moving, the memory rushed back: the way his breath caught when she moaned, how his grip tightened when he pulled her up onto the table, and the way he looked down at her like she was both his ruin and his religion all at once.

And then, the door slammed. Everything shattered.

Her hand lingered above the keyboard. Fingers curled, nails pressing into the gauze—pressure enough to feel something, but not enough to break skin. She made a fist so tightly that it hurt, even with the bandage. No more tears would fall from her. Not here. Not now.

“You chose silence,” she thought with resentment, “but I don’t have to.”

Feeling efficient, detached, and clinical, she opened the staff roster and began cross-referencing lunch coverage. She refused to let anyone see her fall to pieces because of him.

***

The corridor was quiet—not silent, never truly silent in a building like this, but hushed enough that Rook could hear the low murmur of voices before she turned the corner.

Holding the file, she had a good reason to be there. Something to deliver. Something to keep her spine straight and her expression calm. But then, they came into her view.

Zara stood by the water cooler, laughing. Emmrich leaned in just enough to make it look intimate. He didn’t touch her—not exactly—but he didn’t pull away, either. Rook stopped mid-step, her body going rigid. Zara’s hand brushed against his forearm—too casual, too familiar.

Zara spoke quietly, and that made him smile. There was only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, but it was definitely there.

As if sensing her presence, Zara looked over Emmrich’s shoulder and met Rook’s gaze. There was triumph in her eyes—deliberate and cruel—the kind of look that said: He’s mine now. He chose me.

Rook couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

Emmrich turned slightly, catching sight of her, and his expression changed for just a second—a flicker. His smile vanished, replaced by something colder, tighter, and unreadable. He looked at her as if she were nothing, like she were a problem he hadn’t gotten around to dealing with yet. Then he looked away—deliberately, pointedly, dismissively.

The file in her hand crumpled slightly under her grip. She walked past them without slowing or blinking. The sharp click of her heels echoed against the floor—too loud, too sharp. Zara’s laughter followed her—bright, false, piercing.

Rook didn’t turn around.

She made it to the stairwell before her legs buckled slightly, and she caught herself on the railing. Emmrich had looked through her, right through her, after everything. After her mouth on him, after his breath in her ear, after the things he said, after the way he held her, after the blood on her hands, and the way his fingers trembled when he touched her bandage.

And now he was smiling at Zara, letting her touch him, letting her win.

A dark thought whispered inside her: You were never anything real to him. You were convenient, foolish, and easy.

Her throat burned, and her vision blurred, but no tears came. She wouldn’t give them that. Not her pain, not her fury, not her truth. She pressed her back against the wall, gripping the railing until her knuckles turned white.

Let him pretend. Let them both pretend. She would learn how to be hollow again.

***

File delivered to Lucanis, she returned to the quiet of the office one more. She had been there typing away at a report when a single sharp knock came. Her office felt smaller the moment he stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him. No preamble. No apology. Just that controlled, unreadable expression she had come to detest.

Professor Emmrich Volkarin stood just inside the threshold as if he owned the room—and maybe, technically, he did now. She didn’t rise. Determined not to speak first.

“Miss Ingellvar,” he said. “I’ve come to activate your access permissions and finalize your reassignment under my management.”

“I remember,” she replied coolly. “It was mentioned yesterday.”

He nodded once. “This will only take a moment.”

Moving with the fluidity of smoke, he approached her desk and took over her laptop without permission. He navigated the trackpad with practiced ease, entering commands and authorization codes without so much as a glance in her direction.

A hot feeling coursed through Rook as she observed him. 

“So why the delay?” she asked, keeping her voice casual but knowing it was sharp beneath the surface. “You could have done this yesterday.”

His jaw ticked. “I was distracted.”

She leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “A shame. It must have been nothing important.”

His typing paused—for a heartbeat too long—before continuing.

Neither of them spoke for a stretch, just the soft clicks of keystrokes and the steady hum of the air conditioning between them. Her stomach coiled tight.

“You know,” she said quietly, “for a moment last night, I thought you might actually mean it.”

He didn’t look at her. “Mean what?”

“That I mattered,” she said. “That I wasn’t just…” She waved a hand vaguely. “An indulgence. Something to be compartmentalised once the lights were back on.”

Still nothing from him.

Of course.

He continued to work, and she shook her head, pushing her chair back and stepping around him to get some distance, she needed to stop feeling the heat radiating off his body.

“You kissed me,” she whispered. “You waited outside my building. You read my message and drove home. And then nothing. Just silence. Just this.” Rook folded her arms and turned away from him. “Is this your version of damage control?”

“I’m doing what needs to be done.”

“For who?” she snapped. “For you? For your reputation? For Zara?”

That got his attention. He looked up sharply, and finally, finally, she saw it—the flicker of guilt, anger, and hunger, all layered beneath his perfect veneer. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You’re under my management now,” he said flatly. “You’re talented. Efficient. I trust your work.”

“But not me,” she said, biting the words out. “Not enough to talk to me. Not enough to answer a single damn message.”

He didn’t respond.

Fuck, she hated the silence. Hated how much it hurt.

“Well,” she said, facing him, drawing her shoulders out and taking a deep breath. “Thank you for the formalities, Professor. I assume I’ll be kept updated on all… future instructions. You don’t need to visit me in person. An email will suffice.”

He straightened slowly, as if his spine were made of steel. “If that is what you prefer Miss Ingellvar.”

“Wonderful,” she said, her voice brittle. “Then, if that is all, I suggest you find somewhere else to be.”

He hesitated—a beat too long. Then he turned, and left.

She sank into her chair the moment the door closed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the edge of her desk, steadying herself. The silence he left behind was worse than any scream.

***

The stack of paperwork was filed, and her office was quiet once more. Rook had done everything right, yet she still felt as if the ground might vanish beneath her feet at any moment. She crossed the corridor with her head down, her eyes locked on the floor tiles, willing herself to become invisible. It was midday. Less than one hour. One more breath. She could hold it together a little longer until her lunch break. Go for a walk, get some fresh air.

“Rook.”

Neve’s voice cut through the air like a tripwire. Rook’s head shot up, surprised. Neve stood just outside the copy room with folded arms and a furrowed brow, indicating she had been waiting for her friend. She silently organized paperwork into sections within one of the steel cupboards.

Rook plastered on a quick, too-bright smile. “Hey. How’s your day going?”

“Don’t do that.” Neve raised her hand, collected her paper, and walked over to Rook, leaning against the cabinet. She tilted her head, observing her friend work while avoiding eye contact.

“Do what?”

Neve lowered her voice. “Pretend. For starters, you ca’t even look at me.”

Rook’s throat tightened.

“I’ve seen your face all morning,” Neve continued. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how tense you were in that boardroom. Something’s going on. What is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Rook let out a soft, tired laugh. “You’ve always had a lovely way with words.”

“Lunch,” Neve said firmly. “In ten minutes. You don’t get to argue.”

Rook hesitated, then nodded once. Neve helped her file the rest of the documents, and in no time they were slipping out through the side exit on the floor below and stepping out onto the quieter street that circled the building. The café next door was small—the kind with chipped wooden tables and smudged glass cases of pastries that always looked better than they tasted. Their usual booth was open, and Neve ordered for both of them before Rook could protest.

Rook stared at the corner of her napkin. “It’s really not a big deal.”

Neve arched an eyebrow. “Rook.”

“I’m serious. Just a rough day.”

“You flinched when Emmrich walked past this morning.”

The name landed like a stone in her gut.

Neve pressed on. “And he looked like someone had shoved a spike through his spine when you spoke in the meeting. Everyone felt it. You don’t have to explain it, but don’t insult me by pretending I imagined it.”

Rook opened her mouth, then closed it, looking away.

Neve’s voice softened. “What happened?”

Rook ran her finger along the rim of the mug. “We got involved.”

Neve blinked. “Well, I knew that. Obvious, really—”

“And then last night…” Rook’s voice caught. “It escalated. Fast. He—he didn’t hold back.” She swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the table.

“Hey. This is me you’re talking to.” Neve placed a hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Since when did we start censoring the juicy stuff?”

“We were in the conference room. He had me laid out on the table—”

“Wait. Don’t tell me it was where I sat this morning.”

“Fuck no,” Rook said, half-laughing. “It was his seat.”

“Oh, thank fuck for that.” Neve grinned. “Carry on.”

“We were… seconds away. He was about to—” She broke off, pulse quickening. “But someone interrupted. A door slammed down the hallway. He left, I got dressed. Then the archive panel on the wall started beeping. Someone accessed it. All the files we found in Johanna’s office—gone.”

“No way.”

Rook nodded, her expression tight. “He dropped me home. I messaged to check if he got in safe. He never replied. And all day, he’s been cold. Like none of it happened. Like I’m nothing.”

Neve leaned in, eyes sharp now. “Do you want me to kill him?”

A breathy laugh escaped Rook—more air than sound. “Don’t tempt me.”

Their plates arrived, untouched.

Neve reached across the table again, firm this time. “You need to hear this, Rook. You are not second best.”

Rook looked away. “I feel like it.”

“You’re not.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He made me feel like I was the only thing in the world he wanted. And then today… in the meeting, and passing the water cooler—he looked at me like I was dirt. Like I embarrassed him. Like he regretted all of it.” Her throat bobbed. “And Zara was there. Flirting. Clinging to him.”

Neve’s jaw clenched.

“It wasn’t just fooling around,” Rook said quietly. “Not for me. And I thought… maybe it wasn’t for him either.”

Neve squeezed her hand.

“I’ve felt like this before,” Rook said. “When I was little, during visits to the foster homes. When people picked someone else. Every time. I was too loud, too quiet, too strange, too sharp—never the one they wanted.”

She blinked hard, swallowing the ache. “And I promised myself I’d never feel like that again.”

Neve said nothing.

And that was worse because silence meant she saw it—all of it.

Finally, Rook broke down. “Then why does it feel like I’m never good enough?”

Neve slid around the booth and sat beside her, wrapping her arm around Rook’s shoulders. “I’ve known you a long time. You are lightning in a storm. You’re impossible to ignore. Any man who looks at you like you’re anything less than extraordinary doesn’t deserve to know your name.”

Rook rested her head against Neve’s shoulder, if only for a moment, and allowed herself to take a breath, just for a minute.

Chapter Text

The bank doors chimed open.

Rook didn’t look up right away. She was focused — her fingers sliding through crisp notes, counting, stacking, keying values into the system with unhurried precision. Calm. Composed. Untouchable.

But then the air shifted.

Like someone important had just stepped onto the stage.

She glanced up.

Cullen Rutherford strolled in as if the building belonged to him — black coat open just enough to reveal a charcoal waistcoat beneath. His hair was still damp from the rain, a few strands tousled just enough to look intentional. He moved like a man used to attention, used to earning it.

And he knew she was watching.

His stride slowed, lips curving into a practised smile, honey-gold eyes raking over her like he was unwrapping a gift.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he said, voice smooth and low as he leaned on the counter.

Neve offered a polite hello. Rook didn’t. She arched a brow, letting a slow, knowing smirk ghost across her lips — the one she saved for him.

“Mr. Rutherford. Back so soon?” she asked, voice dry.

“I missed you,” he said without a blink.

Behind her, the atmosphere changed. Taut. Still. She didn’t have to turn to know Emmrich was watching. She heard the shift of weight, the deliberate step of expensive shoes on tile.

Cullen’s attention never wavered. “Thinking of closing my account,” he said, eyes still locked on hers. “This place hasn’t been the same lately.”

“That’s a shame,” Rook replied, tilting her head. “We’d miss your habit of dramatically misplacing your PIN.”

He grinned. “Unforgiving as ever.”

“Unimpressed, more like,” she murmured, biting her lip just enough to let it linger.

“I was hoping for a reason to stay.”

The line landed with precision — flirtation honed like a blade.

Rook leaned in slightly, mirroring his stance. “Still using that line, Cullen?”

“It worked last time,” he said. “Managed to bag a date with the best-looking woman in Nevarra.”

That gave her pause.

Their one date — almost nine weeks ago — had been unexpectedly lovely. Dinner. Conversation. A walk by the river that ended with her laughing more than she meant to. She’d vanished afterwards, let him think it was about timing. Work. Chaos. Regret.

But the truth?

Illario happened the following week.

Cullen gave a small, almost self-deprecating smile. “New number?”

Rook tilted her head. “You noticed.”

“I thought you were ghosting me. Hurt my feelings.”

She smirked. “I would never intentionally leave you on read. Not you, Cullen.”

He placed a hand over his heart in theatrical agony. “I knew you cared.”

She laughed softly. “I lost my phone.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes, playful but sharp. “That better be the truth. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to take it personally.”

“Tragedy, I know,” she said with mock solemnity. “I cried for days.”

He leaned closer across the counter, voice lower. “I bet.”

“And yet here I am,” she murmured, straightening slightly, “still standing.”

“Strong women break hearts, don’t they?”

He turned to Neve, grinning. “Did she really lose her phone?”

“Oh, yes!” Neve chuckled brightly, oblivious to the crackling tension behind her.

But Rook felt it.

That familiar burn low in her spine — the kind that wasn’t Cullen. That wasn’t flirtation. It was scrutiny. Pressure. Heat without flame.

Emmrich was still watching.

Still silent.

Still there.

And gods, if she wasn’t thriving on it.

She let the tension curl into the corners of her mouth, sharpening her smile. Then, with unhurried grace, she reached beneath the till and retrieved a blank card. Turned it over. Lifted the pen.

Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate strokes, each digit of her number forming like a signature. Fluid. Controlled.

Cullen watched every mark like a man entranced.

She slid the card across the counter. “Don’t lose this one.”

He took it, eyes scanning the ink. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

“You’ve always been dramatic.”

He feigned a gasp. “I’ll have you know I’m a delicate soul. Sensitive. Easily wounded.”

“Mmm,” she said, eyes dancing. “That explains the coat.”

“This coat is the height of emotional repression, thank you very much.”

“I see you’ve been studying my type.”

He smirked, leaning just a fraction closer. “I’ve met your type.”

A pause.

Not long. Just enough for the words to settle — for the implication to flicker between them.

But Rook didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Behind her, she swore she could feel Emmrich’s stare tighten — not from jealousy, but from control stretched too thin. Like if she turned now, she’d see him with his jaw locked, fists clenched behind his back, barely holding himself in place.

So she didn’t turn.

She smiled wider instead, sweet as sin.

“I’m sure you have,” she said. “But they always seem to forget one thing.”

Cullen’s grin tugged wider. “What’s that?”

She leaned forward just slightly — enough for only him to hear.

“I’m not like them.”

A moment passed—just long enough for the implication to register.
Her eyes narrowed, lips parting. Was that a veiled reference?

Cullen didn’t press. Just smiled, then said lightly, “Tomorrow night?”

She nodded. “I’ll let you pick the place. Within reason.”

Cullen leaned back at last, stepping away from the counter. “I’ll behave.”

“Please don’t,” Rook said sweetly.

He laughed and turned, tucking the card into his breast pocket like a secret.

Varric was fighting a smirk, but Emmrich was not; his jaw was tight. The muscle in his cheek twitched.

Rook held his stare a breath too long before returning her attention to the till.

Let him stew. She had just given her number to another man right in front of him, and smiled while doing it. Let him feel second best.

Cullen didn’t leave right away. He turned halfway to the exit, then paused, his eyes flicking to the two men posted behind Roo and Neve.

He cocked his head. “Why the miserable faces?”

Rook didn’t need to look. She already knew who he meant.

Cullen raised his brows. “That one looks like he’s memorising your security protocols so that he can scowl more effectively.”

Neve choked on a laugh. Rook bit back a grin.

Cullen leaned in again, lowering his voice to something mischievous. “Who’s the stiff?”

She didn’t blink. “That’s Varric. You remember him. He’s the branch manager.”

Cullen nodded thoughtfully. “The one who looks like he could either bake scones or break kneecaps?”

“That’s the one.” Rook smiled.

“And the tall, dark, and glowering one beside him?”

Rook leaned closer. “Oh, that’s my new boss. He’s the new CEO.”

Cullen blinked. “Really?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What’s he like?”

Rook clicked the till shut. Her tone stayed even, but something sharp threaded beneath it.
“He’s got a fantastic vocabulary,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Shame about the personality.”

Neve coughed into her sleeve, clearly trying not to laugh.

Cullen let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Rook looked up, deadpan. “What? You asked.”

“Oh, I like this version of you,” he said, eyes gleaming.

“It’s not new. I’ve just been encouraged to speak less.”

Cullen made a scandalised noise. “Blasphemy.”

Neve nodded solemnly. “She thrives under duress.”

Behind them, the air had thickened. The stillness had weight now.

Rook didn’t need to turn. She felt it. The burn of Emmrich’s stare. The quiet fury he wore like a tailored coat.

Cullen, oblivious, tapped the card in his pocket. “Well, I’ve got your new number now. I’ll call you later.”

Rook nodded once. “I’ll answer.”

He gave her a grin, then, in a bold move, reached across the counter and took her hand in his.

His fingers were warm, his touch easy. Confident. He raised her hand slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

And then he kissed her knuckles.

Not a peck. Not rushed.

Deliberate.

Rook didn’t pull away.

Behind her, she felt the air collapse in on itself — a silent detonation. The quiet behind the counter wasn’t just heavy now. It was vengeful.

Cullen released her hand with a smile, as though he’d just won a prize.

“Miracles do happen,” he said with a wink.

And then he turned, whistling to himself like a man walking away from victory.

***

The doors whispered shut behind Cullen, and silence settled in the room. It wasn’t soft or comfortable; it felt tight. Rook didn’t look back; she didn’t need to. She could feel Emmrich’s stare burning into her back, hot and blistering, even though he was silent.

She straightened the last few notes in her cash register, her fingers precise and methodical. On the outside, she appeared calm, but inside, she was shaking with adrenaline — and something darker, something akin to triumph. Let him boil.

She let her hand linger on the edge of the drawer a moment too long, and the skin at the back of her neck prickled, as though touched by cold — or rage. Still, she didn’t turn around.

“Charming,” came Varric’s low voice from behind her, too casual. “Do you always hand out your number during audits, or is this a new policy?”

She allowed herself a faint smile. “Only for the persistent ones.” This earned her a short laugh from him.

Emmrich remained silent; his silence had teeth. Rook heard the faint shift of his coat as he folded his arms, that familiar tension in the fabric. She could sense the drag of his heel as he shifted his weight. She imagined his jaw was tight, his mouth drawn in that flat line he wore when he was seething inside.

She felt the moment his eyes swept from her face down to her body, slowly and deliberately, before returning to her face and then looking away. Her skin hummed with the awareness of his gaze, and she bit the inside of her cheek to steady herself.

Then Neve interjected brightly, as if announcing an interesting tidbit, “Did you know that Lucanis once tried to pay for takeout with five buttons and a dagger?”

Rook blinked in surprise, while Varric snorted in amusement. Emmrich let out a faint exhale — barely a sound, akin to the tension of a string on a musical instrument being plucked.

“Was it a good dagger?” Varric asked, genuinely curious.

“Antivan steel,” Neve replied, nodding solemnly. “The buttons were just a sweet deal.”

Rook felt grateful for the thread of normalcy amidst the tension. Varric leaned closer, speaking in a low voice, “Are you sure you didn’t add that one to your collection just to spite your boss?”

She arched a brow playfully. “Would I do that?”

He smirked at her. “Absolutely.”

Meanwhile, Emmrich remained at the edge of her vision, unmoving and unreadable. She knew he couldn’t hear her conversation with Varric, but something in the atmosphere had shifted. It wasn’t gone; it was buried. He was quiet, watchful, and contained, but she knew him well enough to recognise the restraint — the fury masked by his composed posture, the rage concealed beneath his calm exterior.

It didn’t scare her; it thrilled her.

***

The till drawer was short.

Rook locked it with a snap, scribbled her figures, and stood. “I’ll need a top-up from the vault,” she said lightly.

“I’ll go with you,” Emmrich replied, his voice smooth.

She didn’t look at him. Just nodded once and led the way through the staff door. His footsteps followed — calm, even, measured. The hallway felt narrower with him behind her. Denser.

The vault door hissed shut behind them.

Silence descended abruptly.

Rook moved to the safe, keyed in her codes, and placed her hand on the scanner. A low beep. A soft click. She crouched, retrieved a stack of cash, and stood, aware of every breath behind her.

“Professional,” Emmrich said, his voice sharp like cut glass.

She didn’t turn to face him. “Is that meant to be a compliment or an accusation?”

“You handled Mr. Rutherford well.”

“Handled?” she echoed. “He’s a customer. A valuable one, with over nine figures invested in this branch.”

Emmrich stepped closer. “A customer who was seconds away from closing his accounts—until you flirted your way into his good graces.”

She turned to face him deliberately. “Is this about Cullen? Or is it because someone else was interested in me?”

His expression remained unchanged outwardly, but she could see his jaw tense.

“I’m your director,” he said coolly. “Don’t mistake indulgence for immunity.”

“Oh, believe me,” she replied, stepping closer, “there’s nothing indulgent about you.”

His mouth twitched— not in a smile, but in something more acrimonious.

“You think I crossed a line?” she asked. “Fine. Report me. Tell head office that their frontline supervisor saved a VIP account and committed the cardinal sin of having a personality.”

“I think,” Emmrich said, his voice lowering, “you enjoy provoking people just to see what happens.”

“I think you don’t like that someone else noticed something worth looking at.”

That took him by surprise.

Then he smiled, but it was cold and calculated—surgical.

“You think that was admiration?” he asked. “That was novelty. Curiosity. Just like when people slow down to gawk at car crashes.”

Her heart lurched at his words.

He stepped even closer—not looming, not touching, just near enough for her to feel the chill emanating from him.

“Men like him don’t want you, Rook. They want the act. The mask. Because the second they see what’s underneath—”

He didn’t finish his thought.

Didn’t have to.

Rook stared at him. Her breath caught somewhere between fury and heartbreak.

And then she laughed.

Just once. Sharp and hollow.

“Thank you for the confirmation, sir.”

Rook stepped forward, jabbing the pile of cash against his chest. “I know I’m messed up. I know I’m not wanted. Not even good enough to scrape second best. But let me tell you one thing.” He didn’t move. His chest rose, slow and strained. “I am damn good at my job.” She took a breath, voice like gravel. “So if you’re worried Cullen might leave because I flirted, maybe consider this — I stopped him. He was going to pull everything. Millions. And all it took was kindness. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Still, no reply.

“And you want to know the real difference between you and him?” She tilted her chin. “Cullen saw me. Even if just for a moment. And he didn’t look away.” She turned, walked to the vault door, and opened it.

But before she stepped out, she said — steady, without looking back:

“You know… he might’ve only seen the performance. But at least he wasn’t pretending I was invisible.”

And then she left.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t run.

But her pulse was a hammer in her throat.

And somewhere behind her, she knew — she knew — Emmrich Volkarin was still standing in the quiet, staring at the door, aching in all the places he swore he didn’t have left.

***

Rook returned to the counter with the cash in her arms, dropped it into the bottom drawer of her desk, and locked it. By the time she stood and took her seat, her mask was firmly in place.

Her hands were steady. Her breathing was even. No sign of the blow she’d just taken in the vault — the words still echoing, still cutting, still stitched into her ribs. Taking a sip from her water bottle, Neve noticed the way the bottle trembled in her hand.

“I’m fine.” The words came out. Final. No need to ask a follow-up. Her friend nodded before resuming her tally.

Behind Rook, the door opened again with a quiet hiss.

Emmrich stepped out.

He walked with that same careful composure. A little too composed. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t taken her heart, pinned it to the wall, and left it there bleeding.

He said nothing as he passed. No glance. No acknowledgement.

Fine.

The observation resumed — Varric and Emmrich standing off to the side, arms folded, eyes scanning the flow of service. Rook adjusted her name badge. Smiled for the next customer.

The queue moved on.

Then—

“Hi there,” came a woman’s voice. “Sorry, my daughter insisted we wait for your counter.”

Rook looked up to see a woman in her early thirties — long magenta hair, a gentle smile — holding the hand of a little girl in sparkly boots and a lemon-yellow raincoat.

“I’m Evie, and this little troublemaker is Franny,” the woman said with a fond squeeze.

Franny beamed. “You have lemon muffins here?”

Rook blinked. “We… don’t. But that’s a wonderful idea.”

“They’re her favourite,” Evie explained. “She told me this morning she was going to the bank and getting a lemon muffin and a big-girl account.”

“I like her priorities,” Rook said, crouching slightly to Franny’s height. “How old are you, Franny?”

“Five,” she said proudly, holding up six fingers.

“Well, you look ready for your own account. Would you like to help me type your name in?”

Franny nodded vigorously.

Rook guided her through it — gently, patiently — letting the little girl press a few buttons, explaining what each one did, showing her the screen with her new name on it. She handed Franny a sticker and promised to send her a card with her name printed on it very soon.

Evie looked genuinely touched.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You’re wonderful with her.”

Rook smiled. “It’s a privilege.”

She completed the account setup, printed the details, and wished them a lovely day.

As they walked away, Franny turned and called out, “Don’t forget the lemon muffins!”

Rook grinned. “I’ll speak to management.”

Evie laughed and gave a little wave.

From the corner, Varric murmured to Emmrich — quiet but audible.

“She’s good.”

Rook didn’t look. But the words settled in her chest like warmth against the bruise.

She straightened the till again, ready for the next customer—

***

A soft ping hit her terminal, twice in quick succession.

SURVEY NOTIFICATION — CLIENT EXPERIENCE FEEDBACK INCOMING.

Two back-to-back. Different codes. The survey notifications blinked on her screen.

Rook opened the first.

Client: Cullen Rutherford
Visit Summary: Balance inquiry
Survey Rating: 5/5

Comments:
The young woman at Counter 1 was outstanding. Quick, clever, and dangerously charming. I nearly closed my account, but she changed my mind — with nothing more than a smile and a pen. If she ever leaves this branch, so will I.

Rook stared at the screen for a moment. Then smiled — dry, amused, tired.

She opened the second.

Client: Evie and Franny
Visit Summary: New savings account
Survey Rating: 5/5

Comments:
The staff member was kind, patient, and made my daughter feel important and grown-up. I was nervous about opening an account for a five-year-old, but the woman who served us made it easy — and even fun. People like her are why I stay with this bank.

She took a slow breath. Rook blinked. She took a slow breath and stood up straighter. She felt a weight from across the space. Emmrich was watching her. She didn’t turn or react. She felt his steady gaze, as if he were reading her mind. She tapped the keyboard. She forwarded both surveys to the internal manager’s inbox.

And kept her face neutral.

A girl worth gawking at?

No.

A girl worth keeping.

***

Rook minimised the screens and tried to refocus, but the words still echoed behind her eyes—not Emmrich’s, but the clients’. She glanced sideways at Neve, who was finishing up with a customer.

Rook clicked open the Cullen survey again, followed by Evie’s. She remained silent, simply waiting for Neve to turn and catch her eye. Rook lifted her brows in a subtle invitation for Neve to come over.

Neve approached, a faint crease between her brows. “Everything okay?” she asked. Rook turned her screen toward her. “Read these,” she instructed.

Neve leaned in to scan the surveys. Her expression shifted from curiosity to pleased surprise, then to something resembling wicked delight. “Oh,” she said, low and smug. “Oh, that’s rich.”

She straightened and turned toward the corner of the floor. “Excuse me, gentlemen?” she called lightly. “Would you mind coming over for a moment?”

Rook’s pulse quickened. Emmrich and Varric looked up. Varric shrugged and strolled over, relaxed as ever, while Emmrich followed, composed and unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back.

They approached the counter, and Neve stepped aside with an innocent smile. Rook just received two client surveys. I thought you might want to see the feedback, considering the audit.” She avoided making eye contact as she shifted slightly, creating space for them to view Rook’s monitor.

Rook stepped back to let them read—first Cullen’s, then Evie’s. The silence was sharp and clean.

Varric let out a low whistle. “I knew he was into her, but damn. That’s one hell of a turnaround.”

“She saved his account,” Neve responded sweetly. “VIP retention. We should get her a muffin.”

Rook didn’t speak or move. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Emmrich’s jaw tighten, the faintest clench indicating his tension. His eyes flicked over the text once, then again. He remained silent, but he didn’t need to say anything. Rook could feel the storm brewing behind his eyes—the words he wanted to say, the apology he wouldn’t give.

Neve stepped forward again, her tone bright. “Five-star service,” she stated. “And a reminder that performance isn’t always about being silent and cold.”

Varric chuckled softly under his breath. Rook turned back to her station, her fingers moving with quiet precision.

She’d made her point without ever raising her voice.

***

The men had moved on.

Varric and Emmrich now sat a few desks down, their thirty-minute observation block shifted to the next pair: Zara and Ambrose.

Rook could hear Zara’s laugh — too loud, too fake. Saw the way she tossed her hair as she handed a receipt across the counter. Emmrich didn’t look up from his notes.

Neve leaned against the dividing panel beside Rook’s station, arms folded loosely. Watching.

“Don’t say it,” Rook murmured without turning. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“I wasn’t going to,” Neve said gently.

They stayed in silence for a moment — the kind only old friends could share, thick with the things they weren’t saying.

Then quietly, Rook spoke.

“I think I might leave.”

Neve blinked. “The bank?”

Rook nodded once. “Maybe it’s time.”

Neve turned, facing her more fully. “Where did that come from?”

Rook shrugged, eyes fixed on her screen even though nothing on it held her focus. “I’ve been foolish. I got involved when I shouldn’t have.”

“He’s the one who’s been foolish.” Neve didn’t say his name. Didn’t need to. “You haven’t been foolish,” she said carefully. “You’ve been brave. Honest. Open.”

Rook said, voice breaking just slightly. “I don’t even know anymore. Maybe I misread everything.” Her fingers clenched lightly around her pen. “He saw something broken in me. And he ran.”

“Or maybe,” Neve said, “he saw something real and it scared the hell out of him.”

Rook let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “Either way, I lose.”

They both looked down the floor, past the customers and desks, to where Emmrich sat, perfect posture, notes in hand, expression calm.

Rook looked away first.

“I need something different. Something that doesn’t leave me…” She trailed off. “Empty.”

Neve didn’t argue; she just placed a hand lightly on Rook’s arm. Grounding. Steady.

“You don’t have to decide today.”

Rook gave a faint nod.

But the seed was planted.

And behind her calm exterior, something in her was already starting to let go.

***

The sound of Zara’s voice carried across the cash desk floor like an overpowering perfume: sweet, excessive, and impossible to ignore. Rook didn’t lift her head.

She could hear Zara—every forced giggle, every affected pause as she played up her charm for the elderly client at her desk. It wasn’t service; it was theatre.

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a balance that high,” Zara purred.

Rook resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Out of the corner of her vision, she noticed Emmrich jotting something down. He didn’t look impressed. Good.

Rook’s fingers flew over the keyboard with speed and precision. She wasn’t typing account notes; she was drafting her resignation.

Please accept this letter as formal notice of my resignation from my position at this branch…

Neve didn’t notice. Humming quietly, she assisted an older woman with a bankbook.

Rook’s heartbeat felt too loud, but her hands didn’t tremble.

It is time for me to seek new opportunities. I am grateful for the time I’ve spent here. I know my value. I am ready for something else.

After reaching the final line, she pressed print. The resignation was complete: short, clean, and devoid of emotion. Her formal goodbye. It just needs a wet signature to make it official.

Just as she rose, a woman stepped into her line. “Sorry—just a quick withdrawal.” Rook smiled automatically. “Of course.”

Behind her, the shared printer hummed to life. She glanced up—just once—in time to see a single sheet slide out. Varric, loitering near the centre aisle, reached for it.

Her breath caught. He read it and then froze.

She completed the transaction without knowing how—a few button presses. A thank you. A goodbye. Then she stepped away from the counter.

Neve was busy at her own desk, distracted by conversation. Zara’s laugh chimed from down the row—sugary and brittle as always.

Rook approached Varric slowly. He held the letter loosely in one hand, his shoulders stiff and brow furrowed.

He didn’t raise his voice but looked at her as if she had just walked into traffic. “You were really going to walk away without saying a word to me?”

Rook swallowed. “You weren’t meant to see it yet. I haven’t signed it. Not with a pen. It’s not official.”

He stared at her, her real name at the bottom of that page—his niece.

“You don’t get to disappear on me again, Rook.”

She felt it deeply—too deeply. It was like being fifteen again when he had caught her trying to run away in the middle of the night. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Then his voice dropped, bitter and quiet, not meant for her but aimed past her. “She was the best thing this place had going. And you didn’t see it.”

Rook froze. So did the air around them.

Footsteps approached. Emmrich.

“What’s going on?” he asked, smooth but sharp.

Varric didn’t look at him; he glared, held out the letter, and walked away, throwing his book in the metal bin as he left the vicinity. The slam caused everyone to fall silent for several seconds.

Emmrich glanced down and scanned it quickly, once. The silence between them stretched thin and razor-sharp.

Rook stood still, chin held high and eyes level, but her heart thudded as if it wanted to escape. His face gave nothing away—no shock, no sadness, no anger.

“My office. Now.”

His voice was low and icy, clipped so sharply that it almost hurt to hear. He didn’t wait for a response; he turned and walked away. Rook exhaled shakily and followed him.

Behind her, Neve looked up, halfway to standing, but Rook gave a slight shake of her head.

“Not here. Not now,” she mouthed.

As she passed Zara on her way down the row, Zara didn’t even notice. She was too busy grinning at her screen.

Emmrich reached his door, opened it, and held it — not for her, but because he felt he had to. She stepped through.

***

The door didn’t even have the chance to close properly.

“You’re resigning?”

His voice cut across the room before the latch had clicked. He stepped into the space—not aggressive, but firm—planting himself between her and the exit like a wall she wasn’t allowed to pass.

Rook stopped dead in the centre of the room, composed and controlled.

“Yes,” she said, her tone cool and steady.

“You were just going to walk away?” His voice cracked, sharp and disbelieving. “Without giving me an explanation?”

She didn’t blink. “You said enough for both of us.”

He stared at her, as if the words had knocked the breath from his chest. His face paled, and his mouth tightened.

And then—softer, lower, more dangerous for its gentleness—he said, “Ivy.”

Not Miss Ingellvar. Not Rook. Her real name.

Something inside her splintered, but she didn’t let it show. She turned her head slowly to meet his eyes.

“Don’t say my name like it means something.”

He flinched.

The letter was still in his hand, slightly crushed now, creased where he’d gripped it too tightly. He looked down at it, as if rereading it might change the outcome.

Before he could stop her, Rook crossed the room. She reached out and snatched the letter from his fingers, clean and without permission. She walked to his desk and picked up his pen.

He reacted an instant too late.

“Rook—”

His hand twitched at his side, a step already in motion, as if his body remembered how to reach for her faster than his mind did.

But she was already at his desk. She didn’t hesitate or slow down. She picked up his pen, uncapped it in one smooth motion, and bent to sign her name.

Each letter was carved across the page like a closing door.

Emmrich halted beside her, just a pace too far. His breath caught, his shoulders rising with it.

By the time he reached her, it was done. She turned back toward him, calm as ice, and held out the page—her signature bold and final at the bottom.

She met his eyes.

“There. Now it’s official.”

Emmrich didn’t move.

“I’m not taking that,” he said.

Her hand didn’t drop.

“You don’t get to pick and choose when to hold onto me.”

His jaw flexed, but his voice stayed maddeningly even.

“You’re overreacting.”

That snapped something inside her clean in two.

“Overreacting?” she spat. “You called me a fucking car crash, Emmrich. You made me feel like a joke. And now you’re standing there like I’m being hysterical?”

“You’re twisting my words,” he said too quickly. “I never said you were a joke.”

“You didn’t have to!” she shouted. “You looked at me like I was something to regret. Like I was just this... messy, pathetic little thing that someone like you could never really want.”

His mouth opened and closed again. He had nothing.

Good.

Because she wasn’t finished.

“And you know what really pisses me off?” Her voice cracked, fury turning thick and sharp in her throat. “I still care. After everything you said—after how cruel you were—I still fucking care what you think.”

A beat. He still said nothing.

She laughed, bitter and breathless. “Say something, Emmrich. Go on. Rip into me again. I know you’ve got something clever locked and loaded.”

He swallowed. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

She blinked—too fast; her eyes burned.

“Well, congratulations,” she whispered. “You did.”

She shoved the letter against his chest—hard. This time, he took it. Not because he wanted to, but because she made him.

And then she turned.

Her hand trembled as it closed around the handle, her voice breaking despite every wall she’d built.

“I’m not second best,” she said. “Not anymore.”

And this time, when the door slammed shut—

She made sure it echoed.

Chapter Text

Rook kept walking. She didn’t look at anyone, didn’t glance down at the floor, and didn’t check to see if Neve was watching, if Zara was smirking, or if Varric was still pacing somewhere in the shadows. She just kept moving back to her office. The door shut behind her, not with a slam this time. It clicked gently into place as she twisted the handle and leaned her weight against it.

The silence hit her like a wall. Hands were shaking. She gazed at them with detachment, as if they weren’t hers; her fingers twitched, and her jaw clenched so tightly that it ached.

The signature. The words. His face when she pushed the letter against his chest.

“You don’t get to pick and choose when to hold on to me.”

The echo of her own voice rang in her ears—fierce, but trembling.

And then his tone — soft, real, almost broken.

“Ivy.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, and her fists curled at her sides, remembering the way her name rolled off his tongue with ease. It was too late now.

Why did it still hurt?

Why did she still care?

Why did hearing her name like that feel like the cruellest part?

Rook pushed off the door and began pacing—slow at first, then faster. Her heels echoed on the floor, a relentless countdown to an inevitable event. A burning sensation gripped her chest, and she pressed the heel of her hand against the centre of her ribs. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction or feel the need to cry. But it was too much. Too heavy. Too close.

She pressed her hands to her eyes, waiting for the sting to subside. Her breath hitched in shallow, rapid bursts. Driven by a need to act, she sat at her desk. It wasn’t calmness she sought, but a tether.

Halfway through typing a report, her fingers moving on autopilot, a notification flashed on her screen: 1 new email. Internal. She stared at it intently before finally clicking to open it.

Subject: Re: Notice of Resignation

From: Emmrich Volkarin

To: Ivy Ingellvar

All I ask is that you take the weekend to consider the decision. Per standard policy, you will be required to work a two-month notice period unless otherwise arranged. The resignation may be formally retracted up to one week before your final leave date.

No greeting.

No sign-off.

No “I’m sorry.”

No “I didn’t mean it.”

No “Please don’t go.”

Just policy.

Just time.

Just enough to make her wonder.

Rook clicked it shut. It didn’t help. It didn’t change anything. But still… her throat was tight again. All I ask... She hated that line the most because it sounded like begging, but to her, it read like a threat.

She let it sit in her inbox—unanswered and glowing like a wound.

The afternoon dragged on, blurring together between half-finished tasks and blank screens. She answered two customer queries, filed one internal form and worked through her to-do list before the weekend began.

Then came the knock—soft.

Not bothering to look up, she called. “Come in.”

The door creaked and then shut again. It was Varric, no folder, no excuses—just him. He stood there for a long moment, watching her. There was something heavy in his expression—hurt, but not anger. Just… weight.

“You signing that letter was the worst part of my career,” he breathed.

There was no reply from her.

“I’m not here to change your mind,” he added. “I just… I had to see you.”

That landed harder than she expected. She leaned back in her chair. “You did. You always have.”

Varric nodded. “I will always have your back, even if it pissed him off.”

She looked down at her hands. “He didn’t seem very pissed.”

A weary shrug came from Varric. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. He hasn’t left his office since you stormed out. I’ve been to see him though.”

Rook looked up at her uncle, mouth hanging open slightly, waiting for him to finish.

“If he wasn’t pissed off before, he most certainly is now.” Varric chuckled. “Told him he’s losing the best damn employee this bank has.”

“Not my problem.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not. But he needs to see your worth and what a mess this has become.” Another pause, then— “I’ll miss you,” he said quietly. “If you go. I don; t want to lose you.”

She blinked. “You’re not the reason I’m going.”

“I understand. Yet, I may be the reason you don’t leave. If I fight hard enough.”

Rook met his gaze. For a moment, she hated how much she wanted to cry, but she didn’t. She wouldn’t.

“Just mull it over. For me? Don’t decide anything today. Leave it until Monday.” Varric made his way to the door. “If you stay, you won’t ever have to buy me a birthday present ever again.” Then he left.

Rook sighed and sipped her coffee.

Another ping: 1 new email.

Subject: Re: Notice of Resignation - Revised Salary

From: Emmrich Volkarin

To: Ivy Ingellvar

Ivy,

Please find attached a revised salary proposal reflecting your performance, client retention results, and your successful completion of recent leadership audits. Should you choose to remain in your current position, the offer will go into effect immediately and include a discretionary quarterly bonus. This offer will remain in effect for two weeks.

Professor Emmrich Volkarin

The matter was not financial; it was a bribe, a surrender. This was the final move in a game that had gone too far. She dismissed the email, choosing neither to reply nor delete it, and left it in her inbox.

*****

The shower hissed behind the curtain, steam curling like smoke around the edges of the tiled room. The mirror was fogged, and the air smelled like caramel and spice.

Rook stood motionless beneath the stream, her arms braced against the wall. She had been finished for at least five minutes, but she couldn’t quite step out. The water beat against her skin, hot enough to sting, yet it wasn’t enough to drown the thoughts clawing at her ribs.

She tilted her head back, feeling the elastic of her shower cap pressing into her temples.

Outside, the front door opened.

Rook froze. There was no knock, just the unmistakable clink of glass, the low scrape of heels against tile, and Bellara’s voice, too loud in the quiet.

“Hello! I hope you’re not decent!”

Rook exhaled slowly. “You’re early.”

“We’re exactly on time,” Neve called back, already halfway into the kitchen. “You just haven’t started drinking yet.”

Rook remained where she was. The curtain blocked her in, and with the heat, the silence, and the water, it was all too tempting to stay.

But then the fridge door opened. Something popped.

She closed her eyes. No escape now.

“Is that the cocktail I was saving?” she called out.

“It’s the cocktail we were saving,” Bellara replied. “For a moment of spiritual emergency. This counts.”

“I haven’t even moisturized.”

“Then hydrate internally first,” Neve said, her footsteps approaching. “Priorities.”

*****

By the time Rook finally stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and still half-steamed, her apartment was in chaos.

Bellara had claimed the sofa, already sipping from a glass with her legs tucked underneath her like a satisfied cat. Neve stood by the kitchen counter, arranging makeup like a surgeon preparing for triage. The cocktail bottle was empty, and there stood a large pint glass, waiting for her.

Rook didn’t speak; she just took the glass and sipped. It tasted of citrus and cheap promises.

“You’re quiet,” Neve said.

“I’m pacing myself,” Rook replied.

Bellara raised a brow. “Since when?”

Neve opened her mouth to respond but stopped, her eyes flicking briefly to Rook’s face. Rook quickly looked away.

Soft, low-tempo synth music played in the background, a playlist she hadn’t queued. Neve must’ve picked it; nothing too heavy, just enough to fill the space.

“Do you want to do your hair yourself, or—”

“Whatever’s faster.”

Bellara caught her tone and, for once, didn’t comment. Instead, she stood and crossed the space, picking up Rook’s glass. “Sit and drink this. Let us work.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Bellara curled Rook’s hair while Neve worked on her face, moving with soft, practiced precision. Brushes swirled, powder settled, and glitter kissed the corners of her eyes. Rook let them turn her, tilt her chin, and adjust her jawline with contour and highlight. She didn’t resist; her mind had already drifted.

Illario. The flowers. And Emmrich. The way his jaw tensed earlier that day when she shoved the letter into his chest.

“You okay?” Neve asked softly, not pausing with the mascara wand.

“Yeah,” Rook said automatically. “Just thinking.”

Bellara brought her a second drink. “Well, don’t do that. It’s a casino, not a thesis defense.”

Rook managed a smile, just barely.

By the time they’d finished, she didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. Her hair was a dark, coiled waterfall down her back, brushed smooth and thick. Her eyes were lined with smoke and shimmer, and her lips were painted a deep wine-red. She looked sculpted, sharp, and devastating.

“I could kill someone looking like this,” she murmured.

“You will,” Bellara said proudly.

Neve adjusted a lock of hair near her temple. “Let them think they had a chance.”

Rook looked at herself a moment longer. She looked perfect. And still… hollow. But that was fine. That was the point.

She moved slowly towards the mirror, smoothing her palms down the waist of her dress.

“Well?” she asked.

Neve and Bellara exchanged a look.

“Absolutely lethal,” Bellara declared.

Rook nodded once. “Good.”

The door clicked shut behind Neve and Bellara, their laughter spilling into the corridor as they headed toward the stairs. Rook stood just inside, alone.

Her flat felt smaller now, quieter. The air still smelled faintly of hairspray, body lotion, and the cocktail they hadn’t finished. A makeup brush lay discarded on the edge of the sink, and glitter clung to the light switch like a secret.

She remained motionless, her heels suddenly feeling leaden. The dress — a crimson masterpiece with a cinched waist and daring neckline — clung to her like a suit of armor. Her lips mirrored the dress’s hue, and her hands were steady, reflecting a newfound composure. Everything about her seemed steady, save for the whirlwind of thoughts within. She glanced again at the full-length mirror near the door. The woman reflected there was undeniably beautiful, even devastating. Yet, she bore no resemblance to the Rook she knew: not the one who laughed easily in the pub, nor the one who cowered in Emmrich’s office, and certainly not the girl who once believed in the romance of red roses. This woman was a weapon, poised to enter battle with a smile.

Rook swallowed, adjusted the fall of her hair, and reached for her clutch.

From the hallway, Bellara called, “Rook! Come on, we’re going to be late!”

Rook didn’t answer right away. She took one last look at herself, then smiled—small, sharp, and unreadable—and stepped out into the night.

Chapter Text

The taxi came to a smooth stop outside the Diamond Casino, its polished black exterior reflecting the glow of the building’s neon signage. Rook stared at the doors ahead, her hands neatly folded in her lap and her bag tucked beside her. She hadn’t spoken for the last few minutes of the drive. She didn’t need to.

Bellara was the first to move, reaching over to tap her phone and pay for the ride.

The car door opened, and the warm air of the Nevarran night rushed in, faintly perfumed with lilac trees, exhaust, and ambition.

Rook stepped out last. Following behind Neve and Bellara, she smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress. The dress hugged her curves like a second skin, cinched at the waist, with a neckline that drew attention to the deep line of her cleavage. Her hair fell in dark waves around her shoulders, thick and unruly—she had left it down on purpose. She wore no gold. There was no need—she was the statement.

The mask was metaphorical—but no less flawless. Every inch of her radiated intensity, even if her hands trembled slightly as she held her clutch. No one noticed the tremor. They couldn’t see the self-doubt swirling in her mind, the awareness that if she spoke, her voice might crack under the weight of her thoughts.

“Final check.” Neve stood and gestured for Rook to turn around. Bellara tousled Rook’s hair and moved the locks around her face.

“More lipstick?” Bellara asked Neve, consulting her expertise, but Neve was already taking Rook’s clutch and fishing for the tube.

Rook sighed but closed her eyes, allowing her friends to fuss over her. She took back her bag when they were done. “Do I pass inspection?” she teased.

“One more thing.” Neve adjusted the top of Rook’s dress slightly, shifting her breasts together.

“Hey! Alright, enough! Usually, I like someone to buy me dinner before they grope me.” Rook swatted her friends away. “If I’m not ready now, I will never be!”

The doors parted, held open for the trio as they entered the gleam of the Diamond Casino.

The interior pulsed with low golden light, and jazz played from unseen speakers. Already, the floor buzzed with the clink of glasses, the sound of heels, and murmured conversation. The air felt expensive—laced with aged scotch, polished wood, and an undercurrent that hinted at power, wealth, and danger.

“Ouch,” Bellara said, bending to rub the heel of her shoe. “These bloody heels! My feet are screaming already!”

Rook shook her head and rolled her eyes.

Neve playfully shoved her friend. “Well, you’re out of luck. You’ve only had them on for five minutes!”

Rook headed toward the stairs; the party was on the top floor, in a suite tucked towards the back with a balcony and its own private bar and dance floor.

“No chance—we are taking the lift,” Bellara insisted. “I’m not walking any further than I need to tonight!” She linked arms with Neve.

The doors opened on the top floor, and the trio exited. Rook purposely hung back, allowing the other two to go ahead.

A suited man waited ahead, with a velvet rope behind him, one hand resting on a polished clipboard.

“Name?” he asked without looking up.

“Neve Gallus.”

“Bellara Lutare.”

He checked the list, crossing off each name, and then glanced up. Eyeing Rook as he waited for her to speak.

“Ivy Ingellvar,” Rook said, her voice smooth and steady.

His brows lifted slightly in recognition, and the smile he gave her seemed too rehearsed.

“Ah, Miss Ingellvar. My boss will be very pleased you came.”

Before she could reply — or stop him — he turned and pressed a finger to the earpiece.

“Miss Ingellvar has arrived. Yes, sir.”

Rook’s spine went rigid. She said nothing, not betraying any emotion, but her grip on the clutch tightened.

“Right this way,” the man said, unclipping the velvet rope with a graceful sweep.

Neve glanced at Rook but remained silent.

Bellara, ever unbothered, whispered with a grin, “I didn’t realise we were being announced like royalty.”

Rook didn’t respond; she simply walked forward.

The hallway stretched ahead, dimmer, quieter, thick with polished stone and low gold lighting that reflected in the floor like oil. The music changed here. It no longer came from speakers on the ceiling but from somewhere beyond — deeper, pulsing, closer. Warmer. Louder.

The private suite was located just past the mirrored doors at the corridor’s end.

Rook slowed.

The soft carpet muffled her heels, yet their steady beat seemed deafening to her. Something clawed beneath her ribs. She pressed her lips together and inhaled slowly.

Neve glanced back. “You alright?”

“I just—” Rook hesitated. Her voice was quieter than intended. “I need a second.”

Bellara paused, then nodded, her expression uncharacteristically gentle.

“You want us to wait with you?” Neve asked.

“No, it’s okay. Just… I’ll be right behind you.”

“Are you sure?” Bellara grabbed her friend’s hand. “We haven’t got to rush in.”

Rook shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I just need a sec.”

Neve didn’t look convinced but didn’t argue. The two of them continued down the corridor, disappearing through the doors as Rook stayed behind and pressed one hand flat against the cool marble wall, holding her clutch like a shield with the other.

The music from inside the suite spilt faintly into the hallway — heavier now. Velvet jazz flowed over a slow, pulsing beat; the kind of music you sink into and never come back out of.

She could feel dread rising, thick and familiar. Illario would be inside, no doubt. Emmrich would be watching. And her mask? It was already cracking at the edges. She tilted her head back against the wall, closed her eyes, and took another breath. The perfume in the hallway was subtle, mixed with something colder, something sterile, like a memory of that night two months ago.

You’re okay, she told herself. You’re fine. You always are.

The doors ahead glinted under the light, inviting her forward. She took slow, steady steps, using the mirror to check her reflection in the glass — elegant, ravishing, and entirely untouchable.

The doors opened with a gentle push. Warm air spilt out — heavier, sweeter, thick with perfume, champagne, and heat. The lighting inside the suite was lower than in the hallway, gold-toned and intimate. A jazz band played live somewhere off to the left, their sound smoothed into the crowd by velvet acoustics and soft bass.

Rook stepped inside. The room opened wide around her — a luxurious private suite draped in velvet and smoke, mirrors and low lights. A sleek, backlit bar ran along one wall. The crowd inside was already gathering, laughter rising above the clinking glasses, the scent of expensive cologne and ambition saturating the air.

She took two slow steps forward, her heels muted by the carpet, her shoulders held high. No one noticed her yet. Good. It gave her time to look, to catalogue, to brace herself.

The suite was divided into sections — a cluster of high tables, a dance floor to the left, and an open balcony through glass doors just ahead. Her eyes flicked quickly between faces — familiar ones from the FBC, a few Volbank suits she didn’t know, and the glittering outlines of Neve and Bellara already at the bar.

The music hit a deeper note — something slow, deliberate. The tempo changed as if for her, and as Rook kept walking, she found her step falling in line with the beat, and her hips swayed.

Each step carefully measured. Each breath controlled.

She passed a server holding a tray of drinks. Ignored the flutes of prosecco. Her hands were full — one with her clutch, the other with restraint.

The lighting shifted as she reached the middle of the room — low beams from overhead casting long shadows across the marble inlays. Her reflection flickered briefly in one of the side mirrors.

Then she felt it — that magnetic pull she couldn’t explain, like being drawn by an invisible string from within.

The tension in the air that belonged to only one person.

She didn’t look yet.
Didn’t have to.

The hair on the back of her neck lifted. Her chest tightened, breath shallower.

She was being watched.

Watched like a loaded weapon in a crowded room.

She turned her head slowly.

And saw him.

*****

Emmrich Volkarin stood at the bar like he owned the air around him. The kind of stillness that drew eyes without asking — that made people move out of his orbit without realising they’d done it. One hand balanced a glass of whiskey; the other braced against the bar, knuckles pale against polished wood. His suit was perfect, cut to his frame with surgical precision, the dark fabric swallowing the light until it caught on that flash of violet silk at his waistcoat. A colour that was deliberate. A colour she knew he’d chosen for her.

Her chest tightened.

With his hair swept back, the silver strands appeared as fine threads of steel, catching the gentle, warm light. His jaw — Maker — that jaw, clean-shaven and unforgiving. His moustache perfectly groomed. He looked regal, dangerous, devastating.

And he was looking at her.

He’d found her the moment she walked in. No, not found — caught. Like he’d known she would appear and had been waiting to see her fall into his line of sight.

The noise of the room folded in on itself, the chatter and music collapsing into nothing.

There was only his eyes.

She’d seen them cold before, seen them narrowed with disdain or sharpened with some cutting remark — but now they burned, hazel locked to hers like a hand around her throat. She hated the memory those eyes dragged up: his body pressed to hers, the heat of his breath in her ear, the way he’d whispered her name like it was both a weapon and a benediction.

She hated it.

And she wanted it again so badly, she thought her ribs might crack under the weight of it.

Her feet carried her forward, slow and deliberate, each step measured like she was choosing to walk into a fire. She didn’t look at him again — not yet. She let him watch. Let him feel the distance close inch by inch.

When she reached the bar, she finally let her gaze lift.

Maker.

Up close, the damage was worse. The lines around his mouth were sharper, drawn tight as if he’d been grinding his teeth. There was something fractured behind the mask — guilt, fury, want, all pulled so taut it could split at the seams. And yet…

It made something twist low in her stomach.

He’d said cruel things to her. Things she would have been smarter to hate him for. Words that had left her raw.

And still she felt it — the pull. The dizzy, bone-deep truth of it: she’d fallen for him.

She’d never felt that before. Not with anyone. Not like this.

It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t sensible. But it was already too late.

*****

“Rook!”

Bellara’s voice sliced through the air like a whip crack, jolting her from the knife-edge of his gaze.

She turned, slow, as though the motion itself cost something. Bellara was waving her over to join them at the bar, holding two drinks with the triumph of a woman who had fought her way to the bar and won. Neve stood beside her, unreadable except for the faint lift of one brow — not questioning, not accusing, just… knowing.

Varric leaned against the bar beside them, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smirk as steady as it had been since she was seventeen.

And Emmrich was there.

Her pulse skipped, traitorous.

She started toward them, each step careful, measured. Her mask slid into place — shoulders relaxed, mouth curved faintly, the perfect facsimile of ease. Inside, her heart was a live wire.

Varric’s smirk widened. “You could’ve made an effort, kid.”

Rook arched a brow, letting her gaze sweep down the length of herself — the fitted red silk, the precise heel height, the curve of her hip beneath the fabric.

Bellara snorted into her drink. “She’s a war crime in heels, and you’re still unimpressed?”

“She looks amazing. Dont be an ass!” Neve rolled her eyes, and gave Varric a jab with her elbow. “He’s just mad you out dressed him.”

“I had to wrestle three interns for this shirt,” Varric shot back. “Show some respect.”

Rook’s lips tilted, but it wasn’t the banter holding her attention. Not really.

It was him.

He hadn’t spoken. Not one word. But he was watching her — not in the lazy, hungry way of a man at a bar, but in that quiet, surgical way of his. Stripping her down to thoughts and pulse and the faint tremor of her breath. His mouth almost moved — the barest twitch — when she stepped into the circle, but he caught it. She’d always admired how quickly he could lock his expression, even when it cut her to see it.

The bartender appeared. “What can I get you?”

“A sealed can of something soft,” she said, her voice even despite the dry edge in her throat.

“Not drinking tonight, kid?” Varric leaned in.

Rook shook her head, and he didn’t say anything, but he knew her reasons why.

Neve shifted closer, her shoulder brushing Rook’s. “You okay?”

It was a simple question. A safe one. And yet her skin still felt hot where his gaze had landed minutes ago, as if he’d branded her there without touching.

She drew a breath, steady on the outside. “Fine.”

The word tasted like a lie, but she swallowed it anyway.

Because she could still feel him watching.

Because she didn’t dare let him see how much he mattered.

*****

The bartender slid the can across the counter with a polite nod. She took it without looking away from the group, without letting her attention obviously snag on the one man she couldn’t stop tracking from the corner of her eye.

Emmrich.

He hadn’t moved in any deliberate way, and yet… she could see it.

The subtle tightening in the way his fingers curled around his glass, just enough pressure to catch the light along the rim. The faint, almost imperceptible pull at the corners of his mouth, as though he’d been on the edge of speaking and thought better of it. The weight of his stance, not truly relaxed; it was a stillness that held, like a drawn bowstring.

His eyes swept over her again, slow and unhurried, but there was precision in it — a catalogue of every detail. The line of her throat. The bare skin at her shoulder. The red silk clinging where her breath shifted her ribs. It wasn’t lust in the simple sense. It was… remembering. Measuring.

And beneath all that, she caught the fracture — the one most people would miss. The minute hesitation before he took his next sip of whiskey, as though the glass itself was an excuse to avoid saying something.

The others didn’t notice.

Bellara was busy teasing Varric. Neve was watching the room. But Rook saw it — saw him — the way she always had since the first time she met him. Even now. Even after the things he’d said to her.

She hated that it mattered.

Hated that her chest ached with the knowledge that whatever else had changed, the pull between them hadn’t. That every cruel word he’d given her had failed to kill this… thing.

This fever in her blood.

Her fingers tightened on the can in her hand. She told herself it was nothing — that she didn’t care.

And still, her heart beat in rhythm with his silence.

She thought — for a moment — that he might hold her gaze.

But then, like a knife turning, he looked away.

Not distracted. Not pulled by someone else’s voice.

Chosen.

The deliberate slide of his attention past her, as if she were nothing more than another body in the room. It landed somewhere over her shoulder, and her stomach dropped before she even turned to see who had claimed it.

Zara.

She was already leaning in, lips curved in that glossy, saccharine way she wore for an audience. Her hand touched his sleeve — barely there, just enough for possession to hum in the gesture. She said something Rook couldn’t hear, but the laugh that followed was soft, sweet, intimate.

It didn’t matter if it was real.
It mattered that she was close enough to smell his cologne.

Rook’s pulse tripped over itself. The noise of the bar rushed back in—clinking glass, low music, the ripple of laughter—but it all felt distant, tinny. She straightened, shoulders easing back, the silk of her dress shifting over taut muscles.

If she stayed, she’d have to watch him endure Zara’s proximity.
If she stayed, she might start to wonder whether Zara’s nearness had anything to do with the hateful words he’d thrown at her before.

So she didn’t.

“Shall we move?” Rook didn’t wait for Neve or Bellara to answer; she turned from the bar and walked over to their friends, who had secured a low velvet booth by the private bar and were already enjoying drinks and unrestrained laughter.

“Look what the storm blew in!” Harding called the moment she spotted them.

Taash gave a low whistle. “That dress should come with a warning label.”

Harding grinned and elbowed her partner. “Told you she’d outshine us all.”

Davrin, sprawled at the far end of the booth with his shirt undone just enough to look intentional, raised his glass in a lazy salute. “We were told formal, not fatal.”

Rook’s smile was sharp, unapologetic. “Well,” she said, settling her clutch down, “you weren’t exactly spared.”

Neve cackled, dropping into the seat beside Lucanis and stealing a sip from his drink.

Rook slid into place between Bellara and Taash, posture languid but alert. A glass appeared in front of her—neat, golden, condensation beading along the sides. She didn’t ask what it was.

“We’re playing poker,” Harding announced. “Winner calls the shots. Literally. You’re up next.”

Rook glanced at the table. Cards, chips, and a dare sheet littered with doodles.

“Raise or fold, Rook?” Davrin teased.

Before she could answer, a shift in the room caught her eye.

She turned, just enough to catch sight of him. Standing at the far end of the room, backlit by amber light. Broad shoulders beneath a dark suit, that familiar violet waistcoat catching like a blade of colour. Zara was on one side of him, and Varric the other, drink in hand, speaking animatedly. Emmrich listened without moving—every inch the picture of control—until his gaze flicked across the suite.

It landed on her.

Rook didn’t flinch. Didn’t drop her eyes. But she turned back slowly, composed, as Davrin let out a theatrical sigh.

“If I die tonight, bury me like this—shirt open, drink in hand, Rook in that dress.”

She leaned forward, voice edged with mock sweetness. “Sweetheart, if you died tonight, it wouldn’t be from me. It’d be your ego tripping over those undone buttons.”

The table erupted. Bellara snorted so hard she startled herself. Lucanis choked on his drink.

“Fuck,” Taash wheezed, clapping the table. “She’s back.”

Rook smirked and lifted her glass. “Miss me?”

Neve leaned in just for her. “You’ve got fire tonight.”

Rook only smiled, but when she glanced again toward the bar, Emmrich was still there. Still watching. Whiskey still untouched in his hand.

*****

The game carried on. Bellara fanned herself dramatically with a menu. Harding joked about forgetting how to breathe. Lucanis corrected her—no one was breathing.

“Are you playing, or just turning Davrin into a puddle?” Neve asked.

“I’ll have you know, I am a dignified puddle,” Davrin declared.

Rook took the deck. “Deal me in. I play to win.”

Taash handed her a stack of chips. “Knew I liked you.”

The banter cracked and sparked—familiar, grounding. They cheated with flair, toasted losing hands, and needled each other with reckless affection.

Rook matched them, sipping her drink from a can, bluffing like she was born to it. But every so often, her gaze flicked toward the bar.

She caught him doing the same.

Once. Twice. Then again.

The third time, she almost didn’t dare—telling herself to focus on the cards, on the laughter, on the warm press of Bellara’s shoulder against hers. But when she finally let herself look…

Zara was gone.

And the smallest, sharpest piece of her eased in relief.

He was still watching, and even without touching, he was still the heat in her blood.

And then—

The moment shattered.

A shadow fell across the table.

A casino staff member stood at the edge, cradling a bouquet so large it seemed to swallow his arms. Roses. Deep crimson. Velvet petals packed tight as secrets. The kind of red that bled into the air just by existing.

He cleared his throat.

“Delivery for Miss Ivy Ingellvar.”

The world narrowed to a pinprick.

Rook didn’t move.

The scent hit — sharp, cloying, sweet enough to turn her stomach. She’d smelled it far too often over the past two months, a warning disguised as a gift.

Bellara blinked at her. “You’ve got a secret admirer?”

The server shifted awkwardly. “He said you’d know who it was from.”

And there, half-hidden between the blooms, was a white envelope. Unmarked. Untouched.

Rook stared at it as if it might bite.

Her muscles drew tight, every nerve braced. She felt her lipstick smile set like plaster, flawless, empty.

From the corner of her eye, Lucanis shifted. Not casual — sharp. His voice was low as he leaned into Neve. “Is this… a thing? Has this happened before?”

Neve didn’t answer, and Rook was relieved.

Her fingers closed around the clutch in her lap until the frame bit into her palm.

Across the room, the weight of another gaze found her. That same pressure she’d felt earlier, but there was now a crawling over her skin.

She didn’t need to look to know who else was watching besides Emmrich.

Her gaze flicked from the roses to the staff member holding them. And then, unbidden, beyond — across the suite, through the throng of people.

She found him.

Illario.

Standing by a gilded pillar, drink in hand, untouched. Alone. His posture was easy, but his eyes were fixed on her.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave.

He only inclined his head and raised his glass — a slow, deliberate bow, theatrical and old-world. A gesture not of courtesy, but of possession.

Her spine locked. Her fingers dug deeper into her clutch.

She did not let it show.

Not here. Not for him.

She rose from the table, her voice low enough that only Bellara and Neve caught it. “Excuse me.”

Neve’s hand brushed her arm. “Rook—”

“I need the bathroom.”

She didn’t wait for their faces, their questions. She turned and walked, each step measured, heels clicking against the marble like a countdown.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

Halfway down the hallway toward the bathrooms, it came — a voice, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

“Ivy.”

Not Rook. Not Miss Ingellvar.
Just Ivy.
Spoken like a promise. Or a curse.

Her steps faltered for a heartbeat. Then she kept going, faster now.

His pace matched hers.

Abruptly, he was there next to her, falling into step as though it had been prearranged. As if they were walking into some private room instead of down a public corridor, his hand was on her arm, and he turned her.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Illario murmured. “As always.”

She didn’t answer as she yanked her arm away from his bruising grip.

Her jaw was iron. Her eyes were fixed on the end of the hallway. Her pulse thundered in her ears — not fear alone, but the memory of what had almost happened the last time she’d been this close to him.

A warning drum.
Getting louder.

Chapter Text

The hallway outside the bathrooms was quieter, gilded light stretching across polished marble. The muffled jazz of the party dulled behind the door. Rook kept walking, not trusting her own breath, not trusting her heels not to betray the shake in her legs. But he didn’t stop following, even after he grabbed her arm.

Illario’s tone stayed soft. Measured.

“I didn’t expect you to come tonight,” he said behind her, voice a heavy drawl. “But I’m pleased you did. Have you liked the flowers I’ve been sending?”

Rook stopped.

Turned.

Slowly.

The hallway lights cast shadows over her features, but her eyes burned with cold fire.

“Is this going to be a pattern?” she asked. “Every time I breathe too close to your postcode, you send a florist?”

Illario chuckled lightly. “Don’t be like that.”

She cocked a brow. “Like what? Cautious?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “Unkind.”

He was too near. He wasn’t touching her, but she was close enough to catch his expensive cologne, a faint hint of smoke on his collar, and something else underneath—something unsettling.

“Ivy,” he said her name again, softer. “I thought we had something—”

“We didn’t.” She spat, the words like poison.

He paused.

She could see it — that flicker in his eyes. His charm was a performance. And right now, he didn’t like being interrupted.

“You were drinking that night,” he said, his voice turning vicious. “Maybe a little too much. Maybe you forgot.”

That was enough to stop her.

Her blood ran cold.

She didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. However, the words clung to her as if they were oil on her skin.

Even then, she didn’t retreat. If anything, she straightened her shoulders.

“No,” she said, voice a blade. “I didn’t forget.”

The air between them tightened. His smile faltered. For a second, something flashed across his face — a warning, a temper, something darker than flowers and champagne.

And that’s when a different voice came.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Lucanis.

He stepped into the corridor as if he belonged there, one hand still in his pocket, the other holding a half-finished drink. His smile was easy — too easy. But his eyes… his eyes were sharp as razors.

“Cousin,” he greeted Illario.

The word hung heavy.

Illario’s posture didn’t change, but Rook felt the shift in tension like a weather front moving in.

“I was just catching up with a friend,” Illario said smoothly.

Lucanis looked at Rook. “That right?”

She met his gaze.

And for the first time all night — she didn’t have to pretend.

“No,” she said, voice clear. “It’s not.”

Lucanis turned back to Illario, jaw tightening by degrees.

“Why don’t you head back in?” he said. “I think you’ve made enough of a scene for one evening.”

Illario didn’t move immediately. His stare lingered on Rook, then on his cousin.

But then he smiled — that same polished, soulless curve of lips.

“Enjoy the party,” he said. And walked away.

Having vanished around the corner, Rook finally breathed again. She then pressed her back against the cool marble wall, exhaling a slow, shaky breath.

Lucanis stood opposite, shoulder to the wall, his glass now empty in his hand. His eyes never left her — the kind of watchful stillness that came from fitting ugly truths together.

“I didn’t know,” he said at last. “About you and him.”

“There’s no me and him,” she replied, voice low but tight. “Not really. Not ever.”

Lucanis’s head tilted, unreadable. “But there was something?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

He glanced toward the doorway through which Illario had disappeared. “He’s been… different. Family dinners, business meetings. Thought it was just him being more of a prick than usual.” A pause. “And then the flowers started.”

Rook folded her arms, the memory of that first bouquet still clinging to her skin.

Lucanis stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Rook… he drugged you, didn’t he?”

The silence between them was answer enough.

Her eyes dropped to the floor. “Two months ago. At the last work event.”

Lucanis didn’t react with shock. Just stillness — and a tightening at the corner of his jaw. His knuckles whitened around the glass.

“He brought me a drink. Got me away from the table,” she said, her voice brittle. “Told me I looked tired. I thought he was being considerate. Said he had a room upstairs where I could lie down.”

Lucanis closed his eyes briefly, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

“I didn’t…” she added, almost to herself.

Footsteps echoed along the corridor — quick, purposeful.

Neve appeared, scanning until her eyes locked on Rook. “What happened?”

Lucanis shifted back half a step, letting her close in. “Illario.”

“Did he touch you?” she said, her voice dropping to a blade’s edge.

“He grabbed my arm,” Rook said dismissively.

Neve’s gaze flicked to Lucanis, hard. “I found her in a private room. Barely conscious. He had her pinned, his hand—” her voice caught, but she forced it steady, “—under her dress. And he was unbuckling his belt when I got there.”

Lucanis went motionless. Fury, not surprise, settled onto his face.

“I pulled him off,” Neve continued, words clipped and clean now. “He claimed it was a misunderstanding. But she could barely stand.”

Silence pressed in, broken only by the muffled hum of music from the main floor.

Lucanis stared down the hall in the direction Illario had gone, as if willing him to reappear.

“Varric knows,” Neve said. “Not the full details. Just enough. He tried to change the venue. Without saying why. Emmrich turned it down, but Varric didn’t want to explain what wasn’t his to say.”

Lucanis swore under his breath. “If Emmrich knew—”

“He doesn’t,” Rook cut in quickly. “And I don’t want him to.”

Lucanis stepped forward and pulled her into his arms without warning. His grip was tight, steady — an anchor.

“You’re my friend,” he murmured. “You can tell me anything. Always.”

Her arms came up slowly, hands fisting in the fabric of his jacket before she let go.

When they stepped apart, his jaw was set like stone. “I need to speak with Varric,” he said and left.

Rook stayed where she was, arms folded tight, the cool marble pressing between her shoulder blades.

Neve lingered beside her for a moment before reaching into her clutch and pulling out a tissue. She held it out without a word.

Rook took it, dabbing under her eyes. “You didn’t have to follow me.”

“I always will,” Neve said simply.

A faint, humourless smile touched Rook’s mouth. “I’m tired.”

They leaned side by side against the wall, arms crossed, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. Neve’s gaze was steady — no pity, just presence.

“I can’t believe he still tries to speak to you,” she said finally, the anger clear in her voice.

“He doesn’t think he did anything wrong,” Rook replied. “That’s the point.”

Neve’s fingers flexed slightly. “I should’ve done more that night.”

“You saved me,” Rook said softly. “That was enough.”

The quiet between them thickened. Here in the shadowed corridor, away from the glitter and music, there was no glamour to blunt the truth.

“I hate that he sent those flowers in front of everyone,” Rook murmured.

“Then he saw you were still standing,” Neve said. “That you still came. That’s what he hates most, smug bastard.”

Rook’s eyes flicked to hers. “Do you think the others noticed?”

Neve hesitated. “Bellara thinks it’s a weird ex. Davrin will tell a joke at your expense. Lucanis knows now. And Emmrich…” She trailed off.

Rook’s jaw tightened. “What about him?”

Neve’s eyes didn’t waver. “I didn’t come just because I was worried. Varric and Emmrich were having words when I left. He saw the flowers, Rook. He’s smart — I think he’s already piecing it together.”

Rook froze.

“I don’t know what was said,” Neve went on, “but it was sharp — low voices, clenched jaws. Then Emmrich stormed out. Headed for the balcony.”

Rook looked away. Of course, he did.

“Varric?” she asked.

“Still inside. Looked like he regretted it.”

Rook’s voice was quieter now. “Is he alone out there?”

Neve nodded once. “Far as I saw.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” Rook sighed.

Neve stepped in, smoothing one last strand of her hair back into place. “Want me to come?”

“No.” Rook’s voice was firmer. “Not this time.”

“He looked angry,” Neve added. “Not cold. Not calculated. Angry.” Neve studied her a moment longer, then gave a single nod. “I’ll be nearby.”

Rook breathed in slowly, the warm corridor lights brushing gold across her skin. Then she turned and started toward the balcony doors.

*****

Rook halted just shy of the glass doors, fingertips ghosting down the front of her dress, smoothing seams that weren’t there. The motion slowed, then stilled at her sides. Her heartbeat was steady now — too steady. It was the kind of calm that came after the storm had stripped you raw, when the body stopped sounding alarms because it knew there was no escape.

Through the sheer curtains, the city burned in gold and steel, the deepening blue of night pushing in from the edges. From here, it looked like a cathedral — not of saints and scripture, but of glass towers and sharp lines.

One more mask.
One more performance.

Her eyes slipped shut, lashes brushing her cheeks as she breathed in, held it, then let the air go in a slow, deliberate surrender.

“Kid.”

The voice was quiet, but it carried. Varric.

She didn’t turn all the way, only angled her head enough for him to come into the corner of her vision. “You’re not going to stop me, are you?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He moved to stand beside her, close enough to share her line of sight but far enough that their shoulders wouldn’t brush. The space between them was thin but charged — like a wire drawn taut.

“You know he cares about you,” Varric said, tone careful, measured. “Even when he’s being a damned idiot about it.”

She let her gaze drift to the farthest building on the skyline, the tallest one catching the last light. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“That’s because you don’t see what I see,” he said. And something in his voice shifted, the faintest pull — like he was walking a narrow line between truth and betrayal. “He’s doing it to protect you. Think about it. That night the files went missing… didn’t something seem off?”

A flicker crossed her expression. “The phone rang,” she murmured. “When we were in the archive room. I thought it was security…”

Varric gave a small, slow nod — the kind meant to say you’re not wrong without saying you’re right.

Her brow furrowed, lips parting as if to form another question. But his eyes slid to hers just long enough to stop it.

His hand came down gently on her shoulder. Warm. Steady. The grip of someone who knew more than he could give her.

“You don’t have to tell him everything,” he said. “But give him something. Enough that he knows you’re still with him.” His words had weight, a double edge: advice for her… and a signal meant for someone else entirely.

Her throat tightened, but she gave the slightest nod.

He stepped back, tension easing from his shoulders now that his part here was done. “Are you going to the balcony?”

“In a minute.”

“Take your time, kid.” The phrase was soft, but the way he glanced toward the glass caught just enough reflection to hint — fleetingly — that he wasn’t alone in watching her.

And then he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the muted hum of the building.

Rook lingered for another breath, wrapped in golden quiet, before she pushed through the door and stepped out into the cooling night.

Chapter Text

The balcony door slid open without a sound.

Cool night air spilt against her skin, trailing over her collarbones and bare arms like a quiet warning. She stepped through slowly, letting the door close behind her with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.

He was facing away from her.

Emmrich stood at the edge, hands braced on the stone railing, head bowed. The city stretched out beyond him — all glitter and gold, thousands of lights flung across the dark — but her eyes only caught the shape of him. The sharp cut of his shoulders. The long line of his back beneath that dark, tailored jacket. One hand curled into a white-knuckled fist against the stone.

Rook stayed still, the pulse in her throat loud in her own ears.

He didn’t move. Not the way he did in a boardroom, where stillness meant control. This was different — frayed edges, uneven breath. A man holding himself together by sheer force.

He dragged a hand down his face, then through his hair, silver strands catching the low light. His fingers shook — not much, but enough.

For a moment, he looked… human. Unarmoured. Unravelling in silence.

It made her chest ache — and she hated that it did, after the words he’d thrown at her. Hated that even now, she still wanted to cross the distance.

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

The quiet stretched, with the hum of the city filling the space between them. There were a hundred thousand lights out there, but only one man she couldn’t stop wanting to understand — or to reach.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to come out here,” he said at last.

The words were quiet, rough-edged. Not his boardroom voice. This one was low, worn — as if he’d been speaking only to the night until now.

“You were counting?” she asked.

A pause. “No. Just… waiting.”

She stepped forward, the stone cold beneath her heels. “You left the party.”

He adjusted his jacket as if it had settled wrong. “I needed to breathe. And so did you.”

“I was fine.”

A faint shake of his head. “You’re better at many things, Rook. Lying to me isn’t one of them.”

Her pulse stumbled — because it felt like a memory, not just a remark.

Silence. The wind curled between them.

“You saw the flowers,” she said at last.

His exhale was slow but heavy. “Yes.”

“They were from him.”

“I know.”

Her gaze narrowed. “How?”

“I didn’t — not at first.” His grip tightened on the railing. “You were shaking. I’ve seen you stand on a table in front of hundreds of people and address them without a second thought, and you couldn’t keep your hands still.”

Her chest tightened. “And you said nothing?”

Finally, he turned, meeting her eyes. “What exactly would you have had me say, when I couldn’t follow — and knew you’d come, anyway?”

No one should know her that well. Least of all, him.

Her nails bit into the leather of her clutch. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes,” he said, voice low. “It does.”

“Look, Professor,” she said, the title bitten off, “I know how this works. We don’t talk about things. We keep it quiet. We bury it all under whiskey and office doors and job titles. I get it.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “Not this. I saw your face when the server gave you those flowers, Ivy.” She froze. “You looked for him in the crowd. Please, I need to know,” he said, almost whispering. “What happened?”

Her eyes were wet — not crying, but glistening. Her lips parted, pressed shut again.

“I’ll listen,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

The silence stretched, painfully.

Then-

“Two months ago,” she said, her gaze dropping and one arm coming across her front as if to guard herself.

Something flickered within him — a narrowing of focus.

“Here,” she added. “The last work event.”

His jaw set. Shoulders squared.

“It was him. Illario.”

The name dropped like a stone in still water. His knuckles whitened as his fists clenched.

“He brought me a cocktail. Raspberry, he knew it was my favourite. We drank together. Then he got me away from the table — said I looked tired, that he’d help me find the others.” Her voice caught, and she squeezed her eyes shut. The air seemed to thin around her. “Neve found me. I could barely stand.”

His throat worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

“He had his hands on me. Under my dress. He was about to—” She cut herself off. “Neve stopped it.”

His fingers flexed once before his grip locked again. The railing groaned faintly under the strain.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she told him. “I’m fine.”

He made a sound — low, scraped raw from the inside.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have cared?”

That hit. His mouth tightened; his chest rose.

“Ivy…” His voice cracked in the middle. Fury shimmered in his eyes — the white-hot kind that’s caged tight. “He touched you. He—”

Emmrich turned away sharply, pacing two steps before stopping short. His whole frame vibrated with restraint.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t,” she said softly.

He turned back. “I should have known. I should have seen—”

“You couldn’t have. You weren’t in the picture back then.”

Emmrich chewed the words before he let them fall. “I thought you’d been with him,” he admitted. “That you had dated or he was an ex. And I hated it. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t fight for the truth. I just… watched. Until I out the piece together, and he followed you, and Varric stopped me.”

Another step toward her — close enough for his heat to brush her skin, not close enough to touch.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For you, having to carry it alone. No one should ever have to do that. Especially you.”

That undid her.

His hand rose, touched her cheek. She leaned into his palm, close enough that their breath mingled.

“You are the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

The words cracked something — and not in the way he intended.

She saw him in the vault again: detached, dismissive.

Just like when people slow down to gawk at car crashes.

Her shoulders stiffened. She stepped back.

“Ivy?”

“Thursday evening,” she said. “In the archive room. You got a phone call.”

He didn’t answer, and she could see it in his eyes, as if a shutter was coming down.

“I just told you one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me, and you can’t tell me what that was about?”

“It’s not your concern.”

Her stomach dropped. “Not my concern?”

“There are things I have to deal with that don’t involve you.”

The mask was back.

“I thought maybe after tonight, you could trust me.”

“I do,” he said — but the pause before it was just long enough to feel like a lie. He still wouldn’t look at her.

Her chest ached hollow. “I hope whatever you’re protecting is worth it. Maybe you should just go.”

She waited — a heartbeat, two — for him to argue, to close the distance, to prove her wrong. The night pressed in around them, holding its breath. She could hear the faint hum of the city below, the rasp of fabric as his jacket shifted with some slight movement and nothing else.

He didn’t fight.

Didn’t even take a step.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t toward her.
His gaze lingered for a fraction too long, something unreadable tightening behind his eyes, before he turned.
The sound of his shoes against the stone felt too loud in the quiet.
One hand brushed the front of his jacket — a small, deliberate motion — and then the latch clicked shut behind him, sharp as the end of a chapter.

Rook stayed where she was, breath catching.

The balcony door creaked open again. For one second, she thought he’d come back.

It wasn’t him.

Varric stepped out, jacket open, faint smell of whiskey and cologne clinging to him.

“I saw him leave,” he said, voice low. “He’s wound tight tonight.”

“That makes two of us.”

He leaned on the railing. “You okay, kid?”

“I just told him about…” Rook took a deep breath. “And he shut me out.”

“Sometimes,” Varric said after a pause, “people go quiet because they’re trying to figure out how to do right by you without making it worse.”

“You think that’s what this is?”

“I think he’s got a lot on his plate.”

“That’s not an answer.” Her eyes narrowed.

“Nope. It’s the only one you’re getting tonight, kid.”

“You’re both impossible,” she huffed and crossed her arms.

“Yeah. Comes with the territory. Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Before people start asking questions.”

She hesitated, then followed.

When the door shut behind them, Varric lingered a moment, eyes on the skyline, tapping his breast pocket once before heading back into the noise.

*****

The casino lights welcomed them back as if nothing had happened.

No heartbreak.

No balcony.

No wall slammed back up like a guillotine.

Rook kept her face composed, lips painted and spine straight, her expression unreadable — but her throat still burned from holding back too much, and her hands were trembling ever so slightly as they reached the bar.

“You mind getting me a pint, kid? I need the bathroom.”

Rook nodded as Varric disappeared, and she was left alone.

She didn’t turn when she felt the presence at her side — didn’t need to. The air shifted. The temperature dropped and her skin crawled.

“I was wondering if you’d step inside again,” came the voice. “I suppose the view is better in here.”

Rook kept her eyes forward, hands clenched around her unopened can of tonic water. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet, here I am,” Illario said smoothly. “I’m not the only one who noticed how stunning you looked tonight, you know. I think everyone saw you walk in, and when you fled the room, like every eye in the room was already undressing you.”

He leaned closer.

“Especially your new CEO.”

Rook didn’t reply.

She couldn’t — not without screaming or scratching or vomiting all over the bar.

Then—

Another shift.

A change in pressure, like gravity reorienting.

Footsteps behind her. Firm. Intentional.

A voice, level but sharp-edged:

“Mr. Dellamorte.”

Illario turned.

Rook did too — just in time to see Emmrich approaching, dark suit immaculate, jaw set. His hand extended.

Illario hesitated, but met it — because he had to.

The handshake was civil.

For half a second.

Then Emmrich’s fingers tightened.

Rook watched Illario’s knuckles begin to pale.

“You’re lingering,” Emmrich said coolly. “This is a private function. For colleagues. Friends.”

Illario didn’t flinch, but his eyes sharpened.

“Of course,” he said. “I only meant to welcome Miss Ingellvar. She’s an old friend. Wanted to make sure she was enjoying herself… You don’t see beauty like that often. And when you do, you make sure it doesn’t slip away.”

“You’ve made your gesture,” Emmrich replied. “It’s been noted.”

Still smiling, still polite — but Rook could see the fury behind his stillness. It radiated from him like heat from coal. Controlled. Deadly.

Illario tried to pull his hand back.

Emmrich didn’t release him.

Not until the moment stretched.

Not until Illario’s charm faltered just slightly.

Then, with a final squeeze, Emmrich let go.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Illario stepped back, adjusting his sleeve — a smile still plastered on his face, but his eyes no longer amused.

He gave Rook a final glance, his eyes travelling from her head to her feet — unreadable, but lingering just long enough to promise he’d remember — and drifted back toward the far side of the suite.

Silence.

Then Emmrich turned to her.

Not a word spoken. Just… eyes.

Searching hers.

Waiting.

But she said nothing.

Not yet.

Because in that moment — after all the pain and all the pushing — he hadn’t done it for forgiveness.

He’d done it because it was right.

And for now… that was enough.

*****

Rook let out a slow breath, her chest rising and falling beneath the deep crimson line of her dress.

The tension hadn’t fully left her body — it clung, low and taut — but something in her spine eased as Illario finally stepped away. His presence, that memory, drifted to the edges of the room.

Emmrich remained beside her.

Not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

His voice was lower than it had been on the balcony. Measured. Careful. Not the voice of a man trying to take ground, but of someone… offering it.

Rook turned toward him, not answering at once. Her gaze searched his face — the furrow between his brows, the tightness at his jaw, that impossible stillness he wore like armour.

“I’m okay,” she said at last, though the words felt too small.

Without thinking, her hand rose — palm pressing lightly over her heart. Her pulse was a wild drumbeat beneath her fingers, like it might burst from her chest.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

His gaze dropped to her hand — lingered — before meeting her eyes again.

A slow breath moved through him.

“Always,” he said — low and deliberate, like it wasn’t just an answer but a vow he’d see kept, no matter the cost.

Then he turned to the barman. “Still water. Sealed. Not tapped.”

The barman blinked, then nodded.

Emmrich took the bottle without looking, his attention still half on her.

And Rook knew — knew — he remembered how she’d asked earlier: A can. Something sealed, please.

He remembered. He always remembered.

She took the bottle from him, their fingers not quite touching, but warmth curling between them like smoke.

“I should…” she began.

“I know.”

No pressure. No move to reclaim what had fractured between them. Just that steady, wordless weight.

They stood there a beat longer.

Then she stepped away — bottle in hand.

Emmrich didn’t speak.

He fell into step beside her, offering his arm at first. When she didn’t take it, the gesture softened — his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back. Not possessive. Not guiding. Just there.

A quiet tether.

A shield, still.

The music swelled as they crossed the floor. Low jazz pulsed under the hum of conversation and the clink of glassware. Her heels clicked sharp against marble, his stride unhurried beside hers.

At the cluster of low velvet seats, the group shifted to make space. Varric looked up, concern flashing across his face, but Rook shook her head and slid into the seat beside him.

She didn’t want to explain. Not yet.

Emmrich lowered himself into the chair opposite her, movements elegant, deliberate. One hand on the armrest, the other on his knee. Posture immaculate. Jaw tight.

But his eyes never left her.

Not once.

She kept her gaze on the bottle in her hands, the untouched glass beside it. The seal cracked with a quiet snap that sounded louder than it should, and she took a long drink before setting it down.

Rook exhaled — a tiny puff of breath that might’ve been a laugh.

And just like that, the evening resumed.

But everything had shifted.
Because Emmrich Volkarin now sat across from her — not on the sidelines, not hiding, not pushing — and his eyes, warm yet cautious, stayed on her like he wanted to make a promise he wasn’t sure she’d let him keep.

Chapter Text

The murmur of the crowd dulled to a soft, shapeless hum.

Rook sat opposite Emmrich at the long, low table, the sealed bottle of water cool between her palms. He was angled just slightly toward her, posture impeccable, hands resting neatly on the armrests. He hadn’t looked away since they’d sat down — not in that fixed, unblinking way of a man staring, but with a steadiness that felt heavier than it should have.

Lucanis sat to his right, one arm draped over the back of the empty chair beside him, phone in hand, thumb idly scrolling. The glow of the screen lit the edge of his jaw, but even with his eyes on whatever he was reading, he seemed aware of the conversation’s ebb and flow.

Rook let her gaze drop to the condensation sliding down the label of her bottle, tracing the bead of water as it curved toward her fingers. The laughter, the glasses clinking, the warm swell of voices — it all blurred into something distant, the kind of sound you felt in your bones more than heard.

Her mind kept pulling elsewhere.
Back to the balcony.
Back to Illario.
Back to the weight in her chest that hadn’t shifted, even here.

She didn’t notice how still she’d gone until—

“Oi, Rook.”

Davrin’s voice cut through the fog, loud enough to draw her head up. He was grinning; another button of his shirt had come undone. He had both elbows on the table like he was halfway into a story and loving every second of it.

“I’m halfway through telling these poor bastards about that night in Rivain. You know the one.”

Her lips twitched — almost a smile — the relief at being yanked back into the room mingling with the faint sting of knowing how easily she’d drifted. She leaned forward, arms settling on the table. “You mean the part where you—”

“Hold up,” Davrin interrupted, pointing at her with mock severity. “Don’t ruin my build-up.”

“Pretty sure you ruined that night,” she murmured, the dryness deliberate.

The chuckle that went around the table loosened some of the tightness in her chest.

Lucanis finally looked up from his phone, brow arched. “Please tell me this isn’t the bathtub story.”

“It’s definitely the bathtub story,” Rook said.

Davrin leaned in, his hands already drawing shapes in the air. “So I’m three drinks in, halfway up the stairs of the wrong house, and who do I find asleep in the bathtub—?”

“Don’t twist it! I found you,” Rook cut in smoothly, “boots still on. Snoring loud enough to shake the pipes.”

The table erupted in laughter. Even Taash cracked a grin over the rim of their wine glass. Davrin looked delighted, leaning back with the air of a man who’d just won a competition.

“I told you! Best night of my life.”

“You were sick in someone’s hat,” Rook added, deadpan.

“A fabulous hat,” Davrin shot back. “Criminal waste of good millinery.”

Laughter rippled again, quick and genuine. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Emmrich’s mouth twitch — not quite a smile, but enough for her to notice. His gaze, when she risked a glance, was still on her.

Bellara appeared then, balancing two drinks in one hand, her hair slightly mussed; clearly, she had had a few too many. She dropped into the seat beside Davrin with a theatrical sigh. “The bar staff here are criminally attractive. Like, arrest-me-now levels.” She slurred.

“Maybe don’t say that while sitting at the same table to the guy who’s actually been arrested,” Harding said, jerking a thumb toward Lucanis.

Lucanis didn’t look up from his phone this time. “That was one time. For a misunderstanding.”

“You were naked in a fountain,” Neve reminded him.

“In winter,” Varric added.

“With fireworks,” Emmrich murmured, the words carrying just enough dry amusement to make Lucanis glance sharply at him.

Lucanis lowered his phone. “Who told you about that?”

Varric snorted. “Better question — who hasn’t heard about it?”

“Legend,” Taash whispered, reaching for the crisps. “Truly.”

Rook laughed — a real one, pulled from somewhere low in her ribs.

Neve caught her eye, smirking like she’d just won a private bet.

“I don’t know what’s more disturbing,” Rook said, “that this happened, or that I wasn’t there to witness it.”

“Trust me,” Neve said, “it was freezing. You didn’t miss much besides several lawsuits and a spectacular case of shrinkage.”

Lucanis looked offended. “I object to that entire statement.”

“You’re not allowed to object,” Davrin told him. “You’re the punchline.”

More laughter, glasses clinking, the soft thud of someone’s hand on the table in amusement.

Across from her, Emmrich’s lips shifted again — the barest flicker — before settling back into that composed line. His gaze didn’t drift this time.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, surrounded by noise and light and life, she let it happen.

No masks.

No defenses.

Just her.

And him.

Still here.

*****

“Okay,” Neve began, straightening up in her seat like she was about to deliver a TED talk. “Emmrich, we’re telling you the story.”

“Oh no,” Rook muttered, already laughing. “Not the chicken.”

Varric leaned forward, grinning. “You have to hear the chicken story.”

Emmrich arched a brow, folding his hands over his knee. “This already sounds ominous.”

Rook tried to maintain composure. Failed. “It was two summers ago. Neve had just broken up with that guy who looked like a wilted carrot—”

“His name was Hal,” Neve deadpanned.

“He had the personality of wet cardboard and the emotional depth of a teaspoon,” Bellara chimed in.

“Anyway,” Neve cut in, “we were all staying at this cabin near the Arlathan Forest. Lucanis swore it used to belong to some Tevinter noble, but it was mostly spiders and bad plumbing.”

“And wine,” Harding added. “Don’t forget the wine.”

“Oh, we remember the wine,” Rook said darkly. “So. Bellara dares me to steal an egg from the neighbour’s chicken coop.”

“It was not just a dare,” Bellara interjected. “You said — and I quote — ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’”

“And I,” Rook continued dramatically, “being a woman of pride and poor decision-making, decided to accept this challenge.”

“She scaled a ladder—” Neve jumped in, nearly choking on her drink.

“Wearing heels,” Davrin added.

“—into the chicken coop, at midnight, with a glass of wine in one hand and a broom in the other.”

“Why the broom?” Emmrich asked, genuinely bewildered.

“For protection!” Rook said, as if it were obvious. “Chickens are vicious. You think demons are bad? Try looking a hen in the eye when you’re tipsy and trespassing.”

Neve was wheezing. “And then the rooster — I swear it was possessed — just erupts out of nowhere.”

“It came at me like a feathered missile,” Rook gasped through her laughter. “I screamed, dropped the wine, fell off the ladder—”

“—and landed in a wheelbarrow full of shit,” Varric finished, beaming with pride.

Emmrich blinked. Then, finally, finally, he laughed.

A real laugh — low, warm, surprised. It stole over his features like dawn cracking through a storm.

Rook watched it happen. Watched the man unwind, just a little. Watched the corners of his eyes crinkle, his shoulders lift as the sound escaped him — reluctant, but genuine.

“I don’t believe a word of that,” he said eventually, sipping whiskey from his glass.

“I have photos of manure in her hair in,” Neve said. “You will believe.”

Lucanis nodded solemnly. “We had to burn the clothes.”

Emmrich raised his glass slightly. “To chaos and chickens, then.”

“To chaos,” Neve grinned, clinking hers against his, and the others followed and bumped glasses, and Rook bumped her water bottle against Emmrich’s glass, his gaze holding her for a fraction too long, the corner of his mouth turning down.

The table dissolved into laughter again, pulling her from inside her head.

And for a single, golden moment, it was like nothing had ever been broken.

*****

“Miss Ingellvar?”

The server appeared at her side like a shadow, tray in hand. On it: a cocktail glass. Tall. Scarlet. Rim dusted in sugar, like it was trying to be sweet. And floating on top of the ice, a single raspberry.

Rook didn’t move.

She didn’t need to.

The weight in the air already told her who it was from.

“I was told it’s your favourite,” the server offered.

Across the room, Illario stood watching. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other nursing a drink. He watched her, his eyes locked, smiling like this was all part of some long-running inside joke.

Before Rook could open her mouth, Varric reached across the table and plucked the glass from the tray.

He held it up slowly.

“Cheers,” he said flatly, voice loud enough to carry. “To our charming host.”

And then — eyes never leaving Illario — he took a sip.

Just a sip. Nothing more.

He placed the glass down in front of him with quiet finality. His fingers tapped once against the base.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

He just stared.

Illario’s face changed. Slightly. Not enough for most to notice — but Rook saw it. That barely perceptible flicker of confusion. Of calculation thrown off.

Varric’s gaze drifted to Emmrich.

Seated across from her, Emmrich hadn’t moved. Yet.

But his face—

Rook felt it before she saw it.

That fury. Cold. Composed. Dangerous.

His knuckles were white around his glass. His eyes locked on the red cocktail like it was a trigger.

Then — a shift. Subtle, but decisive. One hand slid from his drink to brace against his knee, weight shifting forward.

He was going to stand.

Before he could, Lucanis’s hand landed on his forearm. Not a grab, not a show — just enough pressure to stop the movement.

Emmrich’s gaze didn’t move to him right away. His free hand came up to his own jaw, cupping it, thumb pressing into the muscle there as if holding something back. His breath flared faintly at the edges.

Lucanis leaned in, close enough that their heads almost touched, and murmured something low.

Through the thrum of the room, Rook caught only two clipped words.

Not here.

Emmrich’s thumb dragged slowly along the line of his jaw before he lowered his hand. He sat back with deliberate precision, glass in hand again, but the agitation remained — coiled under his composure like a blade sheathed but not forgotten.

Beside her, Neve leaned in and quietly slipped her hand into Rook’s beneath the table. No words. Just the warmth of a palm against hers. A grounding presence.

Rook’s eyes flicked to her friend.

Neve’s jaw was tight. Her eyes said everything. I’ve got you.

Varric leaned in, voice low. “You alright, kid?”

Rook gave a single nod. Too fast. Too stiff.

“I’m fine,” she lied, lacing her fingers with Neve’s under the table.

Varric’s eyes dipped to their joined hands. He didn’t call her on it — just gave a small nod and leaned back, but his drink stayed untouched in front of him.

Across from them, Emmrich picked it up.

Her breath caught.

He turned the glass slowly, tilting it so the light skimmed the red surface, studying it as though it might confess under the right gaze. Then he brought it to his lips — not a show, just enough for the liquid to touch his tongue.

His mouth pressed flat.
A pause.
Then the smallest shake of his head.

He could taste it too.

He set the glass down with careful precision, sliding it just out of reach. His gaze swept the room — quick, cutting, searching. One hand slipped into his jacket.

His phone.

Check. Lock. Check again.

Rook’s pulse stumbled.
Something in him had shifted — the edges pulled tighter, sharper. A spring drawn back and waiting to snap.

And then—

Zara.

She appeared at the end of the table like a rusted dagger slid into silk — all false sweetness wrapped in glittering bronze. The hem of her dress cut high enough to make its own statement, her confidence worn like jewellery.

Rook felt her approach like oil slicking over clear water.

Zara moved through the space with calculated ease, brushing shoulders, skimming fingertips over sleeves, flashing smiles that never reached her eyes. She slid between Lucanis and Emmrich, her hand drifting over his shoulder as she claimed the empty space beside him.

“You kept my spot warm, didn’t you?” she purred, and waited as if Lucanis was going to move to the empty chair beside him.

Lucanis ignored her and stayed where he was.

Emmrich didn’t flinch — but he didn’t look at Zara either, his gaze stayed fixed on his empty glass.

The warmth from earlier — the laughter, the easy pull between them — thinned to a fragile thread.

And Zara had just put the match to it.

She leaned into Emmrich’s space like she’d been invited, perfume curling into the air between them. She said something low — too low to hear — and let her fingers rest on his arm, laughing softly like they shared a private joke.

Emmrich didn’t laugh. He didn’t move away either.
His face was stone, but his jaw was tight enough to strain.

His lips moved once in reply — a whisper, sharp and brief.

Then silence.

From across the table, Rook watched every flick of Zara’s lashes, every perfectly measured lean, every brush of contact designed to be witnessed.

Her chest tightened. Stomach knotted.
She couldn’t hear the words — but she could feel them. Feel the distance growing with each second he didn’t look at her.

Her grip tightened on her water bottle until it ached.

Then he stood.

Zara went with him — smooth, shadow-quick.

Rook’s heart tripped.

Beside her, Neve shifted, tension radiating like heat, but neither spoke.

Emmrich didn’t look back.

He said something low, quick, his hand hovering at the small of Zara’s back.

Zara’s laugh followed them as they slipped through the side arch — toward the corridor, toward the bathrooms, toward—

Her throat closed.

The scrape of his chair legs still rang in her ears. The faint swing of the archway curtain swayed like an afterthought, proof they’d been there and were gone. The warm press of his gaze — always there, always on her — was just… missing.

Her pulse pounded in the hollow space it left behind.
Even the air felt thinner without him in it.

The rest of the room blurred to meaningless noise: the clink of cutlery, Harding’s laugh, Taash’s voice — all dim and distant. Only one sound cut through, sharp and bright as broken glass.

Zara’s laugh.
Trailing away down the hall.

And Rook sat frozen, listening to it fade.

*****

The ladies’ bathroom door swung shut behind her, muffling the casino’s bass to a dull pulse through the tiled walls. Rook locked a stall, sat, and let herself breathe — or tried to. The quiet wasn’t really quiet; her pulse still drummed in her ears, a restless, angry flutter she couldn’t still. Her ribs ached with the effort of keeping each breath measured.

At the sink, she twisted the cold tap until it squealed. Water splashed over her wrists, the shock biting up her arms, cooling the heat in her skin until the pounding at her veins slowed. “Pull yourself together,” she told the mirror under her breath — not a plea, an order. Chin up. Face neutral. No tells.

Under the harsh vanity lights, she didn’t like what she saw — eyes too shiny, mouth set too flat. She shifted her dress, moved her cleavage as Neve and Bellara had done outside before they entered the building. Hair: fine. Liner: smouldering. Lipstick: faded. She remade her mouth in precise, controlled strokes, each sweep of colour a barrier between her and the chaos clawing at her chest. Blot. Toss the tissue. Armour back in place.

The corridor outside was cooler, lit in that flattering half-gold. The strap of her bag slipped as the door eased shut, jolting her arm. Something thumped, bounced, and skittered away — her lipstick, the same shade she’d just put on. It rolled toward the corner where the corridor bent, coming to rest against the skirting board.

She crouched to reach it — and froze halfway down.

A quiet laugh drifted from just beyond the corner. Not loud. Intimate. Zara. The sound threaded the air like a secret shared between two people standing very close.

A man’s voice answered — low, controlled, too soft to catch the words.

Emmrich.

Recognition hit like a stone dropped into water, rippling through her before she could brace. She knew his cadence in her bones, even when she couldn’t make out the sentence. The not-knowing made it worse. Private. Withheld.

Her fingers closed around the lipstick. It felt hot, though she knew it couldn’t be. She straightened, breath tight, and took two silent steps toward the corner.

A decorative glass panel broke up the stretch of corridor ahead, catching the low light in warped shapes. At first it was only movement — a shift of colour — but then it resolved:

Zara, leaning in.

Emmrich’s hands — both — at her waist.

Zara’s fingers curling into his hair.

Her stomach pitched, an ugly, weightless lurch. For a second, she convinced herself the glass was tricking her. She blinked hard — once, twice — willing the image to change, to make sense. But the panel ended, and the truth stood in front of her in clean, cruel focus.

Zara’s mouth on his.

And then — worse — her eyes opened. Slowly. Deliberately.

The warmth of his hand at the small of her back when they made their way from the bar after he interrupted Illario. The way his gaze had lingered across the table, soft in a rare, unguarded moment. His fingers almost brushed hers when he passed her a bottle of water, deliberate enough to feel intentional. The ghost of his scent still clung to her from when she had leaned into his hand on the balcony. The half-smile they’d shared when the other had shared stories.

They found Rook instantly, and stayed there, a flicker of triumph sparking in the dark.

Those moments — less than an hour old — curdled in her mind. Warmth turned sour. Every look, every touch, felt like it belonged to someone else now, as if she’d been holding onto borrowed things she was never meant to keep.

Heat drained from Rook’s face so fast she swayed. Her ears rang. The bass from the casino might as well have been a war drum. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t even look away. In the space of a breath, every word he’d spoken to her tonight felt like a lie. The warmth of his hand at her back earlier, the way he’d looked at her from across the table — all of it reeked now, sour and tainted.

The lipstick dug into her palm, sharp edges biting skin. She knew, with nauseating clarity, that Zara had wanted her to see. That Emmrich knew she was here — and hadn’t pulled away.

Something inside her went very, very still.

Chapter Text

Rook turned sharply, shoving the lipstick into her bag before her fingers could betray their tremor, and headed for the main room. Instinct carried her forward, but the floor felt hollow under her heels — a brittle veneer of normalcy stretched thin over something waiting to give way. The music swelled with every step, louder, brighter, almost obscene in its cheer, and she realised she was breathing through her teeth. Not in anger — but because if she stopped, she might not breathe at all.

The noise hit in layers: laughter, glass on glass, a burst of off-key singing from somewhere to her left. Each sound was brittle, sharp, like shards of glass grating along her jaw. She didn’t look back. Didn’t want to see if either of them had followed. If she met their eyes now, she might splinter… or worse, she might not.

Her skin prickled, her breath measured to the point of artifice, as though control could be bitten down on and held until the moment passed. She reached the table and slid into her chair with a smile honed to a fine edge — small, deliberate, the kind that left no doubt she’d seen everything.

Neve’s laughter from a moment ago had already faded, her gaze sharpening into concern, but Rook ignored it. Her hands stayed in her lap, her spine never touching the back of the chair. She didn’t speak. Neve reached under the table anyway, fingers curling around hers — and felt the tremor she was trying to hide.

Lucanis was mid-story, broad gestures punctuating his words. Taash lifted a glass in mock salute. Bellara snorted into her drink. The air was warm and buzzing, a pocket of lightness.

It didn’t touch her.

“Rook…” Neve’s voice was quiet, worried, her eyes scanning Rook’s face.

“Not now.”

The words were barely there, but Neve leaned back immediately, letting go.

She felt him before she saw him.

A shift in the air. A subtle tightening of space. Then he was there — taking the seat directly across from her. She didn’t look up. She didn’t have to. She knew the weight of that gaze: heavy, searing, impossible to ignore.

Her fingers dug into her thighs. Neve noticed, but stayed silent.

“Ivy—” His voice was low, rough, one hand moving across the table as if to offer… something.

“Don’t.”

Quiet. Flat. Final.

He stilled — but not with the commanding stillness she remembered. This was something more brittle, an edge about to snap. His jaw flexed once, the muscle shifting under taut skin. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know they’d be hard.

And between them, like smoke neither could wave away, lingered the ghost of the kiss. Zara leaning in. His body going tense — but not moving away. Hands finding her waist, his grip saying more than words.

He knew she had seen it. She could feel the tension radiating from him, thick as heat, rolling across the table until it was hard to breathe.

His hand retreated, moved to the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulled out his phone. The screen lit his face in a pale glow, making the shadows at his temples deeper, his mouth a thin, restrained line. His thumb slid over the glass deliberately, tapping out a measured reply. A pause. Another message came in. His jaw tightened further.

Rook’s stomach twisted.
Zara. It had to be.
Some smug little follow-up to that kiss — maybe a photo, maybe just words meant to twist the knife. She could picture the tone, could hear the syrupy malice of it. She could imagine her name in Zara’s mouth, bitten off like something bitter.

Varric leaned toward her. “You alright, kiddo?”

She nodded — barely. “Tired.” The word felt foreign, as if she’d borrowed it from someone else.

Neve’s fingers brushed hers under the table. Warm. Steady. She didn’t pull away, just kept it there, even though the gesture wasn’t reciprocated.

Across from her, Emmrich checked the phone again. The muscles in his forearm shifted as he typed, shoulders tight, posture too rigid to be casual. Not once did he look at her. Not once did he try.

Her chest ached.

He could have stopped her.

He saw her.

And he did nothing.

And then worse, he deepened the kiss.

A sound cut through the table’s chatter — high, sharp, and ear-piercing.

Rook froze.

Her head turned sharply toward the source.

Zara stood at the bar with Illario, the picture of satisfaction. Her smile was razor-edged, all teeth, dripping with mockery. When her gaze slid across the room, it caught on Rook and lingered — the slow, appraising look of someone who had already claimed victory — before drifting lazily back to Illario, before laughing again.

He wasn’t pretending not to stare. His eyes dragged over her openly, moving with deliberate slowness as though memorising her from the outside in. It was the kind of look that undressed and locked the door in the same motion, and it made her feel sick.

Then Zara laughed again.

Like glass shattering.

The kind of sound that pierced straight into the skull, jagged and cold, until it rattled in her bones.

Her blood went cold. Every nerve lit up in static. The room felt too hot, too loud, too unsafe — the walls too close, the exits too far.

That was enough.

The chair scraped hard against the floor as she pushed back. Neve startled.

“Rook?” she asked softly.

“I just—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, keeping her eyes locked on the exit. “I need some air.”

Varric’s mouth twitched like he might speak — might throw her some lifeline she wasn’t sure she’d take. But he didn’t.

She rose, her chair scraping against the floor, the sound too sharp in her ears. Her steps were steady, but there was an urgency under them, each one clipped as though the ground might give way if she lingered.

She didn’t look back at Zara’s slow, satisfied smirk. Not at Illario’s predator’s gaze, watching her go.

But when she passed him, he looked up.

It was a flicker at first — a shift in the air — then his eyes found hers, and the noise of the room seemed to fall away. His phone stilled in his hand, jaw tight, something unreadable sparking and dying in the space of a heartbeat.

She should have looked away. She didn’t.

The moment stretched, thin and fragile, until it was almost unbearable. Then she tore her gaze free, the loss of it like yanking a thread too tight from a wound, and kept walking.

And she didn’t look back again — not at the table, where the laughter went on as if nothing had happened, where something inside her had just cracked with the muted, sick sound of bone giving way.

*****

The music dulled as soon as the door swung shut behind her.

The corridor was dimmer here, but it wasn’t quiet. The bass still thumped faintly through the walls — a pulse she couldn’t slow down to match. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, each step echoing like a clock she couldn’t stop.

Rook didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to move.

Needed to find a way out.

Her breath caught halfway down the hall, sharp in her chest. She pressed her palm against the cool wall, nails biting into her skin as she tried to drag air into her lungs. It wouldn’t come right — too fast, too shallow, like trying to drink through a straw with holes in it.

It was too much.

Too many lies.

Too many secrets in the same room, all of them pretending it was fine.

The kiss.

The stares.

The messages on his phone.

And her. Sitting there like some perfect little piece of background furniture — silent, still, replaceable.

Her eyes burned.

She could almost hear the voice she’d grown up with, the one that had never needed to be loud to wound:
You’re lucky to be here at all.
Don’t think you’re special.
You’ll always be second best.

Her chest clenched tighter.

Rook had told herself she’d outgrown it. That she’d built armour over those soft places. That no one could touch her like that anymore.

But it didn’t take much, did it? Just the wrong look. The wrong silence. The wrong man not standing up for her when she needed him to.

With her nails still pressed into her palm, she pushed herself away from the wall and walked on. The air here felt thin, the hallway stretching too long in front of her.

She wanted to scream.
She wanted to go home.
She wanted him to come after her — and hated herself for wanting that.

“Ivy!”

Her steps faltered. His voice carried easily even at a distance, low but sharp, echoing off the corridor walls.

“Ivy, wait!”

Her pulse spiked, a hot rush under her skin. She didn’t turn. She didn’t slow down, and managed to place one foot in front of the other.

The door to the stairwell loomed ahead. She pushed it open with more force than necessary, the metal frame clanging against the wall, and stepped inside. The cooler air met her like a welcome slap, but it didn’t clear her head.

The door swung shut behind her, sealing out the music, the lingering laughter, and the chaos of the suite that echoed down the corridor. In the sudden quiet, her pulse sounded louder.

But the door didn’t click.

The faint shift of air told her before she even turned — he’d followed her in.

For a moment, nothing.

She could hear the muted hum of the overhead light, the faint tick of her own heartbeat in her ears. His footsteps didn’t come closer, but his presence filled the space anyway, dense and heavy, like a storm waiting for the right second to break.

She kept her back to him, staring at the stairs that dropped away in front of her, one hand resting on the rail. Her breathing was uneven, shallow in a way that made her chest ache. She could feel him behind her — not close, not yet — the weight of his gaze pressing between her shoulder blades.

The silence stretched. Long enough for her to think he might leave.
Long enough for her to wish he would.

Then his footsteps started, slow and deliberate, closing the distance.

“Ivy—” His voice followed her this time, closer now. The sound of it hooked under her skin, familiar and dangerous all at once.

She ignored it and started down the stairs — only to find him cutting in from the side, closing the distance in two measured steps. He moved past her by just enough to block the way forward, his shoulder grazing the wall, one hand settling on the rail like it belonged there.

Up close, she could see it all in brutal detail: his coat half-unbuttoned, hair mussed like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times, tie askew, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. And at the corner of his mouth — that same pink smudge she’d seen on Zara. Lipstick. Her stomach twisted. She’d put her own lipstick on like armour not twenty minutes ago; now his mouth was marked by someone else’s.

“Let me explain,” he said, breath controlled but uneven, like holding himself together was costing him.

Her pulse thudded in her throat, metallic on her tongue. “Explain what? Looked pretty clear from where I was standing.”

“It’s not what you think—”

“Isn’t it? You didn’t exactly look like you hated it.”

His jaw flexed, the faint grind of teeth audible in the narrow stairwell. His nostrils flared, a long breath pulled in through his nose. Restraint wound tight in every line of him. “Ivy, please… let’s just get through tonight. Don’t go. Don’t leave. Not just yet.”

“Why? So I can watch you go back to her?” The words tasted bitter, layered with the phantom sweetness of the roses Illario had pressed into her hands earlier. She could still smell them, cloying in the back of her throat. “Was she good?”

“What you think you saw… it’s not even close.”

“I saw you kissing! Your hands on her waist!” Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“You have no idea what’s going on.” He raked a hand through his hair, the movement loosening his stance just enough for her to slip past, quick and silent, before he could stop her.

“No, I don’t know. Because you don’t tell me anything.” Rook spat. “You keep your secrets, and I’m just supposed to… what? Trust you while you’re letting her put her hands on you?” She had now stopped two steps below and turned to face him.

He didn’t answer. That silence — that awful silence — nearly worse than the kiss.

“I thought you were different.” Her breath caught.

The words landed. She saw the minute retreat in his stance, the way his shoulders drew back like he’d absorbed a physical blow.

“I should’ve known better. Second best — that’s all I ever am, isn’t it? It’s why I feel invisible every time I’m around you.”

His hand lifted halfway toward her, fingers curling like he might catch her wrist — and then closing into a fist instead. “It’s not—”

“Don’t. If you touch me right now,” she said quietly, “I’ll break.”

Her heels clicked against the floor as she continued down, each step echoing up the space. Only when she reached the bottom did she turn back.

His face — usually carved in control — was unguarded now, fractured at the edges. Broken.

“I would’ve fought for you,” she whispered.

Something flickered in his eyes — there and gone, but it left a crack behind.

“I would have done anything for you.” Her bottom lip trembled despite her best effort to still it.

A tear slipped hot and silent down her cheek. His gaze caught it — lingered — and she knew he’d seen.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air between them felt thin, stretched. Her breath caught, a ragged sound tearing loose before she could swallow it down.

His face crumpled.

“I believed I was yours.”

Then she turned away. The sound of his voice followed her down — cracked, wrecked.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His sobs filled the stairwell, raw and unsteady, but she didn’t stay. She pulled open the door and stepped back onto the main casino floor.

The casino swallowed her — heat, noise, perfume, and the press of bodies, a dizzying contrast to the cold stairwell. She kept her head down, weaving through the crowd, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears until the sharp bite of night air hit her.

Flashing blue and red lit the pavement — police cars pulling up at the curb. Officers stepped out, moving toward the doors. She didn’t think anything of it. Not tonight. Not with her chest raw and her hands curling around her bag, clinging to it like a life line.

A yellow cab rolled to a stop when she lifted her arm — not quickly, not urgently, just… enough.

The driver met her eyes once in the rearview. Whatever he saw there made him keep his mouth shut. He pulled away from the curb without a word.

The city lights slipped by in a smear of neon and shadow. She stared out but didn’t see any of it. Her own faint reflection hovered in the window glass, violet eyes rimmed with shine she refused to let spill over.

She folded her hands in her lap, fingers knotted so tightly her knuckles burned. The only sound inside the car was the soft patter of the first drops of rain against the roof.

Her phone wouldn’t stop vibrating in her bag — constant, insistent, a rhythm that matched the pressure in her chest. Emmrich. Neve. Varric. The others. She didn’t check. Didn’t want to.

She kept her gaze fixed on the rain starting to snake across the glass, telling herself she was just tired, just overthinking. But the thought still crept in, bitter and familiar:
This is what it is to be left behind.
To be the one no one chooses first.

*****

Rook didn’t remember climbing the stairs to the flat or unlocking the door. Didn’t remember leaving her shoes by the mat. The flat was dark except for the city’s glow pressing through the blinds.

She walked straight to the sofa, bag sliding from her grasp onto the cushions. The phone came next — pulled out, screen alive with names and missed calls — and she set it face-up on the coffee table, the buzzing still going as if it might shake itself apart.

She sat forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Her shoulders trembled once, then again, and the sound that left her wasn’t a sob so much as a breath finally giving way under its own weight.

Outside, the rain gathered strength, drumming harder against the windows, until it was all she could hear.

She stayed like that — unmoving, breaking quietly — while the phone lit and lit and lit in front of her. The names blurred together now, one after another after another.

And under all of it, the same truth she’d carried since she was a child rose to the surface, unsoftened by time.
Alone. Like usual.
Not wanted.
Always someone’s second choice — if a choice at all.

*****

Rook had barely moved; she now sat curled into the corner of the sofa, knees drawn to her chest. The apartment felt heavier now, thick with the scent of rain drifting through the window. Her breathing was uneven, catching every so often on the echo of a sob that hadn’t entirely left her. The tears had stopped, but they’d left her skin tight and her eyes raw, the way crying always made her feel—like she’d been scoured out from the inside.

The phone lay silent on the coffee table. Dark. Still.

It looked almost innocent, like it hadn’t been screaming for her attention since she left the Diamond.

She stared at it for a long moment, waiting for it to come alive again.
When it didn’t, she leaned forward and picked it up.
The glass was cool in her hand, and she realised she’d been avoiding touching it—avoiding what it might hold.

The screen lit instantly, a wall of missed calls.
Her pulse jumped.

At first, the names blurred together.
Then one pulled into sharp focus.

Neve.
Again. And again. And again.

She opened the FadeApp messages.
Neve’s words were clipped and frantic:

Please answer me.
I’m worried. Where are you?
Ring me right now. Please.

Her chest tightened.
She could almost hear Neve’s voice in those words—firm, urgent, the kind of tone meant to jolt someone into action.
But she still didn’t move.

Her thumb scrolled lower.

Emmrich.
Dozens of messages, each one closer to the next, the gaps between them shrinking like he couldn’t stand the silence.

The first ones were sharp, commanding:
Please answer me.
I need you to pick up.
—That tone she knew well. The one that expected obedience. The one she’d stopped answering hours ago.

Then, a shift:
Darling, please, I can explain.
It’s not what you think.
—She almost laughed at that. Almost.

More followed, and these were different—edges fraying, control slipping:
She meant nothing.
It’s you I want, dearest.
I swear to you, it’s you.
—Her heart gave a single, treacherous beat at those words, and she hated that it did.

And then came the ones that stopped her breath.
No polish. No armour. Just raw need:
Don’t shut me out, my dear.
Please.
I’m begging you.
—She’d never seen him beg for anything. Not from her. Not from anyone.

Her mind churned, half wanting to believe him, half wanting to throw the phone hard enough to crack the screen.

Another message appeared while she was still staring.

I’m coming to see you.

Her stomach knotted so sharply she pressed her free hand against it. She didn’t know if the feeling was dread, relief, or something tangled in between. With a thumb hovering above the call icon, pulse ticking hard in her wrist.

Rook pressed the call button before she could change her mind.

It barely rang once.

“Oh thank fuck you called me,” Neve’s voice burst through immediately, breathless and shaky. “I’ve been going out of my mind!”

There was noise behind her — voices, a chair scraping, the low hum of a crowd muffled like it was coming from another room.

Rook didn’t waste time. Her voice came out hoarse, scraped thin from crying. “Is he w-with you?”

A pause. “Emmrich? Yes—”

“Tell him not to bother,” Rook cut in, sharp and final. “I don’t want to see him.”

“Rook, that’s why I’ve been ringing you—”

“I don’t care what he’s told you—”

“Zara’s been arrested.”

The words landed like a stone in her chest. She opened her mouth to speak—

“Is that her?”
The voice in the background was deeper, urgent.
“Is she safe? Is she home?”

Rook froze at hearing him.

Even muffled, the sound of him hit low in her stomach, tightening something she’d been trying to keep locked.

Rook gripped the phone harder, knuckles whitening, but she didn’t answer. Didn’t acknowledge him.

Neve’s breathing was loud in her ear, waiting for her to speak.

Rook said nothing.

Neve’s breathing filled the silence for a moment. Then there was a faint rustle, and her voice came back, a little further from the mic.
“I’m putting you on speaker.”

The background noise shifted — clearer now, closer. She could hear movement, someone settling into a chair, the creak of wood.

“Rook?” Varric’s voice this time, solid and steady, but edged with something sharper. “Where are you?”

“H-home.” She swallowed hard. “What do you mean, arrested?”

Her own voice broke, and she felt the fresh warmth of tears slipping down her face before she could stop them.

Varric didn’t waste time. “Emmrich was wearing a wire, Rook.”

Varric’s words seemed to ring in the air, heavy enough to still her breath. She blinked at the wall across from her, the edges of the room blurring as her mind tried to catch up.

A wire.
He’d been wearing a wire.

While she’d been standing there — seeing that kiss — while she’d been drowning in it, convinced she was nothing more than a complication to him… he’d been doing something else entirely.

Could that be why he went silent? Why he did fight for her?

Her chest felt tight, confusion tangling with the bruised ache in her ribs. She didn’t know whether to scream or to ask him why she hadn’t been told.

There was a shuffling sound, and then his voice — not muffled in the background this time, but clear. Direct. “Ivy? Dearest?”

She didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry.” The way he said it was low, almost rough — not the clipped precision she was used to, but something frayed at the edges, as if the words cost him to push out. “I was trying to protect you.” A breath, uneven. “I’ll explain when I see you. As soon as the lockdown is lifted, I’ll be on my way to you.”

Her breath caught hard, a painful hitch she couldn’t disguise. Protect her? He’d cut her open first. She wanted to tell him that. Wanted to make him understand how the sight of him — and her — had lodged like glass in her ribs.

She wanted to ask if he’d meant every word he’d sent before, the ones that had kept her awake, replaying over and over in the dark. If it was really her he wanted. If it had ever been.

Her mouth opened. “Emmrich, I—”

The rest broke in her throat.

Her tears started again, hot and helpless, and this time she didn’t fight them, didn’t try to keep her voice level or her breath steady. It all came pouring out — the ache, the confusion, the pull of wanting him even now — and she let it, because holding it in had become unbearable.

“My dear, whatever you’re about to say… keep it. Hold it. I’ll hear it when I’m there.” His voice softened on the last words, warm in a way that undid her ribs. “I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms, right now.”

“Just… I can’t…” she managed, barely above a whisper.

“I won’t be long. Please. I need you to know what happened. I can explain everything now it’s over.”

A faint creak from the front door.

Her head snapped toward it, a frown tugging between her brows —

Footsteps. Too quick. Too close.

A rush of movement in her peripheral — and then something hard slammed into the side of her skull, white light bursting across her vision.

The phone slipped from her grasp, clattering against the floor. Emmrich’s voice fractured into the tinny chaos of the open line — muffled shouts, the scrape of furniture, glass breaking somewhere behind her.

A sharp gasp escaped before her knees buckled.

Then — silence.

The call went dead.

Chapter Text

Rook’s body was a vision of ruin beneath him — trembling, flushed, wrecked by his hands and mouth. And still she looked at him like she’d fall apart again with only a word.

Triumph seared through Emmrich’s chest, dark and hot, as he kissed her. He made sure she tasted herself on his tongue, made sure she knew what he’d dragged from her. Mine. All of this. Mine.

The belt came loose from his trousers with a hiss. He wanted her to hear it. To know what was coming. His cock throbbed against the soaked fabric of his boxers, leaking freely, painful with need. He let her look. Wanted her eyes on him — wanted her to see what she had reduced him to.

When his hand wrapped around himself, slick with her release, his breath fractured. “Fuck.” His jaw clenched as he stroked slow, deliberate, coating every inch with her. 

Look at what you’ve done to me. Look at what you’ve made of me.

Her gaze never wavered. The sound she made when he touched himself burned through his ribs like lightning.

He stepped closer, the swollen head of his cock brushing her thigh. The alignment was perfect — her body tilted, inviting, her hips arching to take him. He gripped her hip. His other hand tightened around himself. He was about to bury himself in her, about to finally give in—

Bang.

A flicker of movement at the door.

Every muscle in his body froze. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. The haze of lust evaporated in a heartbeat, replaced with a sharp, cold clarity.

They saw them

Not them…….They saw her.

His pulse spiked, not with shame, but with fury. Whoever dared — whoever fucking dared — to look at her like this, exposed and trembling, would bleed for it.

“Get dressed.” His voice came out like a blade, ice-cold, clipped. He didn’t mean it for her — not truly. It was a shield, a command to armour herself while he hunted.

He wrenched his trousers back into place and strode for the door. Shirt half-fastened, belt dangling, he didn’t care. The fury drove him.

Emmrich flung the door wide. The corridor lay empty, but his ears caught it — faint, retreating footsteps in the stairwell.

His blood roared. “Coward,” he snarled, teeth clenched. “You fucking coward.”

He moved fast. Shoes striking the floor hard, body cutting through the sterile light like a predator unleashed. He hit the stairwell, took the steps two at a time, his chest heaving. For a moment, he glimpsed motion below — a flicker of shadow, the echo of feet.

He chased them to the ground floor. Whoever they were knew the building and were making a beeline for the staff side exit, breath ripping his lungs raw. 

Mine. You looked at what is mine.

But when he left the stairwell to the ‘exit’ door, it was wide open, but there was nothing. 

He stopped and stared, fists curled tight, vision blazing. Whoever they were, they were gone. Disappeared into the shadows. His cock still ached, but the hunger was eclipsed now by something darker: the need to protect, to destroy, to claim.

Emmrich slammed the door closed and headed back up the stairs, rage boiling with nowhere to go.

*****

By the time he angrily returned upstairs, his jaw was aching from clenching. The intruder was gone, slipped through his fingers. Every step back to the conference room stoked the fire in his chest — rage at the coward who fled, rage at himself for letting them close enough to see her.

He shoved through the door, already rehearsing how he would tear apart every inch of the building until he found a clue, but he needed to check on Rook. He pushed open the door to the conference room, the door was soundproof, and the sound hit his eardrums.

A sharp, insistent beep.

He turned his head, and his stomach dropped. His gaze cut through the room. Empty. The chair was tipped, her dress gone, the air still heavy with her.

His chest seized. Ivy.

For one blinding second, an image slammed into the forefront of his mind — her being dragged screaming down a corridor, hands on her, mouth covered, helpless. He wouldn’t have been able to hear from the stairwell.

The panel beside the door flashed red.

Secure Storage Alert – First Floor Archive. Unauthorized Access.

The world snapped to a point.

Not the files. Not the ledgers. Her.

No. No no no.

He bolted.

The stairwell door slammed against the wall as he threw himself through it, pounding down the steps so hard the concrete rattled. His vision tunnelled. His breath tore raw.

If she’s gone. If they touched her. If I’ve failed her —

The beeping seemed to chase him down, each shrill note a knife between his ribs. He drove his body harder, lungs burning, eyes locked on the flickering lights below.

Predator instinct twisted into something he hated admitting, even to himself. Fear.

Not of being caught.
Not of losing the files.
Of losing her.

*****

The stairwell spat him out into the first-floor corridor, lights flaring on above him in a staggered cascade.

The archive door was wide open.

His stomach lurched. For an instant, he was certain he’d been too late. His legs nearly gave.

Then he saw her.

Ivy — inside the wreckage, chest heaving, cheeks still flushed but standing. Her dress half-zipped, hair mussed, eyes wide but alive.

Relief crashed into him so hard he staggered against the frame. His hand curled around the wood until his knuckles went white, fighting to keep himself upright.

Then the shelves came into focus. Files torn out. Papers scattered like leaves. The back unit yawning open, empty where it mattered most.

Fury swallowed the relief whole.

He stepped inside, eyes sweeping her body first, not the room. Her shoulders tense, hands trembling. No blood. No injuries. His chest loosened by a fraction.

He closed the distance in two strides, hands gripping her arms. Not rough, but desperate. He needed to feel her, to anchor his panic in the solidity of her body.

“Are you hurt?” His voice cracked on the last word.

She shook her head quickly. His lungs stuttered with a ragged exhale, head almost dropping to her shoulder — but he forced it back. His fingers tightened on her arms.

“You shouldn’t have come down here alone.” His voice was gravel, controlled. What he meant was, I shouldn’t have left you alone.

Her eyes flashed, her voice steady even through the tremor. “I wasn’t going to sit around and do nothing.”

Brave girl. Foolish girl. He both adored and loathed her for it.

“You were supposed to stay where I left you,” he said, quieter now, desperation leaking in despite himself.
The words weren’t chastisement. They were a confession. Wait for me. Don’t make me live through finding you gone.

Her reply barely reached him — the files, Johanna’s files, gone. He turned, gaze locking on the gutted shelf. His heart sank to the pit of his stomach. The cost of one moment’s indulgence, of letting himself have her, was laid bare.

Rook moved and knelt beside a fallen box, hands trembling as she spread a folded list against the cardboard. He crouched down beside her, shoulders brushing.

The air between them still hummed with alarm, but her presence steadied him. The scent of her, the heat of her, alive.

He let himself lean, just for a moment, lips brushing her temple. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t affection. It was a tether — proof he hadn’t lost her. His thumb traced the delicate skin of her inner arm, grounding himself in the small miracle that she was still here.

“I shouldn’t have left you,” he murmured at last. Not just here in the archive. Not upstairs in the conference room. Not ever.

Her protest was gentle, rational. “You weren’t to know.”

But his mind was already circling the truth like a vulture. He should have known. He should have anticipated. He should never have let himself be distracted.

The list blurred in front of him. His jaw set like stone.

And then — the shrill buzz of his phone cut through the fragile moment.

*****

The screen lit up. Unknown Number.

Every instinct in him screamed trap. He shouldn’t answer — but he knew he had no choice. Whoever it was had chosen this moment deliberately. Emmrich took several rushed steps and left the room to answer the call.

He pressed the phone to his ear. “Volkarin.”

The voice was smooth as oil as it travelled across the line. “Well, well. I thought you had higher standards than her, Emmrich.”

His stomach dropped, fury cutting through the marrow of his bones.

Zara.

She laughed, low and cruel. “The mighty Volkarin, rutting into the pitiful case that is Ivy Ingellvar, on your conference table. Pathetic.”

His knuckles went white around the phone. He forced his tone flat, icy. “You’re lying.”

“Don’t test me.” Her words snapped sharply, giddy with triumph. “I don’t lie, Emmrich. Not about this.”

A buzz. His phone vibrated. He pulled it away just far enough to see — a notification. An image attached.

A screenshot.

His blood froze. The frame was grainy but undeniable: Rook’s body sprawled back on the conference table, his figure looming over her.

Not the whole video, a still, a screen shot.

Just enough.

Proof.

Emmrich’s vision blurred at the edges. Rage roared in his ears, but he locked it down, jaw grinding. He couldn’t give Zara the sound of his panic, his fury.

He lifted the phone back to his ear. “What do you want?”

“Don’t worry. I’m generous, and so I’ll give you thirty minutes to drop her home, tuck her into bed like the little prize she thinks she is.” Zara’s voice was silk over glass. Then she added, sweet as poison, “Solas will be calling you. He wanted me to pass along his regards.”

The words hit like a slap. His breath stilled.

She laughed, soft and sharp in his ear. “Yes, that Solas. He said thirty minutes, Emmrich. Don’t keep him waiting.”

And before he could answer, the line went dead.

He lowered the phone slowly, fingers aching from how tightly he’d gripped it. His reflection stared back in the dark glass of the archive window — pale, rigid, murderous.

Zara had seen. Zara had proof. And now Solas was waiting.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and forced his expression blank before stepping back into the room.

When he met Rook’s eyes, he didn’t let a flicker show. Not the rage. Not the fear. Only steel.

“I’m taking you home.”

*****

The car was too quiet.

Emmrich kept his hands at ten and two, knuckles bone-white against the leather. The wheel might as well have been a neck beneath his grip.

The dashboard clock glowed faintly. Every glance at it made his chest tighten. Thirty minutes. No more. Zara’s voice still echoed in his ear, oily and mocking, and behind it was the shadow of a name he didn’t dare repeat.

Beside him, Rook sat with her hands folded in her lap. He could feel her watching him, the way her presence pressed against the edges of his control.

Again, he looked in the rear-view mirror. Nothing. Not a flash of headlights. No other cars on the road. Nothing. He checked again. His body refused to believe they weren’t being followed.

“Who was on the phone?”

Her voice was soft but cutting, a scalpel slipping under his ribs.

He swallowed. His tongue was sand. He wanted to tell her — wanted to spill everything and beg her forgiveness, beg her not to hate him when she learned what Zara had. But all that left his mouth was:
“Someone who shouldn’t have this number.”

Flat. Controlled. A stranger’s voice.

He felt her go still beside him; the silence stretched heavy. Usually, she would press, cut him down with sharp questions until he yielded. Tonight she didn’t. Tonight, she felt the danger in him and let it hang.

The clock ticked again. Another two minutes had passed. Each minute flayed him open.

He kept checking the mirrors, the side streets, every dark shape that passed. But what he really feared wasn’t behind them — it was already inside, coiled in his pocket in the form of a single screenshot. Proof. Leverage. Poison.

His throat burned. He gripped the wheel tighter. All he could think was: I should have met her sooner. Before the rot. Before this. Maybe then she could have been mine without fear.

By the time he pulled up outside her apartment, his chest ached from holding it all in.

He killed the engine. Turned to her at last. Took her hands, kissed them, one and then the other, clinging to the ritual. Pressed his forehead to hers.

“I wish we had met sooner.”

The words were raw, ragged. A confession slipped through the cracks.

I wish I had more time.

I wish you weren’t already marked.

I wish I wasn’t about to walk away from you.

Then he leaned over and opened her door, as though the act itself might keep him from breaking apart.

*****

With every step she took towards the building, he felt a pang of anguish as he watched her go. Emmrich didn’t start the engine until the front door of her apartment building shut behind her. He sat there, engine idling, eyes on the darkened windows. Waiting. Listening to the tick of his pulse in his ears.

Then his phone buzzed.
FadeApp: 

ROOK : Door’s locked. I’m in. Let me know when you get home. xx

His throat clenched. Relief hit hard, tangled with something bitter. She was safe — for now. He stared at the message until his vision blurred, thumb hovering over the screen.

He couldn’t reply. Not with Zara waiting for proof he’d done as ordered. Not with every word he might send her turned into leverage.

He forced the phone back into his pocket, grip shaking. Shifted the car into gear. Pulled away from the curb without a sound.

The clock rolled over, and the seconds were falling away.

Later, at a red light, he was so close to his home that his phone buzzed again.

FadeApp: 

ROOK : Are you okay? You were quiet when you left x

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t answer. He set the phone face down on the passenger seat, as if burying it might silence the ache in his chest.

The city rolled past in streaks of light, blurred and hollow. His hands gripped the wheel tighter.

Every instinct screamed to turn back, to climb the stairs to her door, to confess everything. Instead, he drove into the dark, chasing a clock that would never stop ticking.

*****

The city blurred past in streaks of red and white. He barely saw it. His eyes kept flicking between the road, the rear-view, and the dashboard clock. Each minute that ticked by felt like another bead on a rosary of dread.

Zara’s voice clung to him. The screenshot burned behind his eyes. Rook’s text sat unread in his pocket, glowing like a wound. He wanted to answer her. He wanted to say I’m fine, you’re safe, sleep, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t risk it. Not now.

His hands ached from gripping the wheel too tight. His chest burned with all the things he couldn’t tell her — that he’d been weak, that he’d exposed her, that she was marked now. He told himself he’d do damage control, that he’d find some way to bury this, but the truth whispered back with every beat of the clock: I can’t protect her from this.

By the time he reached the underground garage beneath the tower, his head was pounding. The gate lifted on his fob’s command and shut behind him with a finality that felt like a prison door. He pulled into his spot, engine echoing in the vast emptiness, then killed the ignition.

Silence.

He sat there, staring at nothing, the faint glow of the dashboard painting him in a sickly blue. For one long, still moment he let himself sag against the seat, a man hollowed out. Then discipline snapped back into place.

He swiped the key, punched the passcode, and the lift accepted him with a muted chime. The doors closed, sealing him inside. No one else could enter. No interruptions, no witnesses. Just him, his reflection in the brushed steel, and the steady rise of the lift toward the penthouse.

For the first time since the archive, he thought he might breathe.

Then his phone rang.

The screen glowed: Unknown Number.

His stomach dropped. A tremor of rage ran through him, but beneath it was something colder. He lifted the phone to his ear.

“Volkarin.”

A voice, smooth and calm, cut through the quiet.
“Hello, old friend.”

His blood froze.

The lift hummed around him as it ascended, but he felt like the ground had fallen away. He pressed back against the wall, jaw locked, throat dry.

Solas.

“You’ve kept yourself busy,” the voice went on, mild amusement threading through each word. “But you’ve grown… reckless. Distractions will do that.”

Emmrich said nothing. He couldn’t. He forced himself to breathe, slow and silent.

A pause. Then:
“She is… spirited. A little flame like that will burn through you in the end. Ivy Ingellvar, Varric’s niece. A thing of beauty. You never could resist the pretty ones.”

The words landed like a brand against his chest. Not just the mocking tone — but the fact Solas had named her.He had seen. He knew.

The lift reached the top floor with a soft chime. The doors opened onto the quiet luxury of the penthouse, but Emmrich didn’t move. He stood in the steel box, phone clutched to his ear, pulse hammering, as the world he thought he controlled tilted beneath his feet.

The voice on the line didn’t waver. Calm, assured, like it belonged there in his ear.
“Reckless. Always reckless, when desire outpaces judgment.”

Emmrich forced his throat to work. “You’re supposed to be in prison.”

A low chuckle. “Supposed to be, yes. But you and I both know appearances are everything in this business. You took my bank, paraded as the savior of what I built. And now? I’m free. And you…” A pause, deliberate. “You’re exposed.”

Emmrich’s jaw clenched. He wanted to demand proof, to shred the silence with fury — but Solas anticipated him.

“Turn on the news, old friend. Midnight broadcast. You’ll find my absence… noteworthy.”

The lift chimed, doors sliding open into the penthouse. Emmrich strode through, phone still pressed tight to his ear, the echo of Solas’s words rattling inside him. He crossed the living room, switched on the wall screen.

There it was. Breaking News.
“Fade Banking Corp CEO Solas Lavellan— Missing From Federal Custody.”
A reporter’s voice droned: “Transferred from federal holding for a closed hearing late this evening, Mr. Lavellan never arrived. Authorities confirm the transport vehicle was found empty. The two guard officers escorting, dead…”

Emmrich’s stomach twisted. He turned the volume down with a violent flick.

On the other end, Solas chuckled softly, like a man humored by a child’s tantrum. “You see? What is prison to someone like me? Bars are only for men who consent to them.”

“What do you want,” he ground out, voice low, guttural.

“What I’ve always wanted,” Solas said smoothly. “Leverage. Power. And now I have both.” A pause — deliberate, mocking. 

Emmrich’s grip on the phone turned bone-white.

Solas’s tone shifted, silken amusement sliding beneath the words.
“She looked exquisite in that conference room, Emmrich. Did you forget the cameras we carry in our pockets now? One angle was all it took. A frame here, a frame there. When the time is right, it could be… educational. For the public. For your board. For her.”

Emmrich’s pulse thundered. “If you so much as—”

“Oh, calm yourself. It isn’t me you need to worry about.” Solas’s chuckle was soft, indulgent, like a parent humoring a child. “Zara speaks quite fondly of you. Too fondly. She’s the one you’ll need to convince not to press send.”

The words slid into him like knives.

“All that tension you’ll feel tomorrow at the office?” Solas murmured. “That won’t be my doing. That will be hers. Zara’s. She enjoys her little games. I simply… permit her the stage.”

The line crackled, then:
“You see, old friend, your downfall doesn’t need to be orchestrated by me. You’ll manage it all on your own, with a little flame to distract you and a jealous protégé eager to burn you both.”

The call ended.

Silence swallowed the penthouse.

Emmrich stared at his phone, every muscle trembling with fury. 

Zara. 

Fucking Zara. 

But Solas’s hand was still there — unseen, pressing down like a weight on his chest.

For the first time, he felt caged even in his own fortress.

*****

After the call ended, the silence that followed was louder than any taunt.

Emmrich stood in the middle of his living room, phone limp in his hand, staring at the skyline beyond the glass. The city glittered, oblivious. Untouchable. He felt like he was choking on it.

He set the phone down on the table with mechanical precision, then crossed to the cabinet. The whiskey bottle was already open before he realized his hands were shaking. He poured too much, amber liquid sloshing against the rim, and drank half of it back in one long pull that burned all the way down.

It didn’t settle him.

He collapsed onto the sofa, head tipping back, glass dangling from his fingers. The penthouse felt cavernous, sterile. All that security — the garage, the key, the passcode, the private lift — and still Solas’s voice had reached him like smoke under a door.

Zara had the video. Solas had the stage. And Rook… Rook was the piece they’d placed in the center, gleaming like bait.

He pressed a hand hard over his face, willing away the memory — her body arched on the conference table, the sound she made when he touched her, the way her eyes locked on his as though she wanted every inch of him.

Mine. 

She had been his in that moment, utterly. And he had let someone else see it. Record it. Weaponize it.

His jaw clenched. He hated himself for giving in. Hated himself more for wanting it again, wanting her, even now.

His vision blurred. His chest ached. All his control, his walls, his rules — they meant nothing. Not with her. Not against Solas. Not with Zara grinning in the shadows.

He set the glass down with a clatter and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled over his mouth. His breathing was shallow, uneven.

For the first time in years, he felt like he was already losing.

*****

The whiskey burned a line down his throat, but it didn’t steady him. He set the glass down, fingers tapping restlessly against the rim. The phone buzzed.

Unknown number.
Not Solas this time.

He swiped it open. A message.

“I have proof of what you’ve made of her.”
A video file icon pulsed beneath the words.

His stomach knotted. He didn’t press play, yet he could see the clip was only five seconds long. Instead his thumbs moved fast, sharp against the screen.

EMMRICH: What do you want? Money?

A pause. Three dots blinked.

“Money?” The reply came quick, smug. “Please. I can get that anywhere. This isn’t about money.”

His jaw locked. He typed again, terse.
EMMRICH: Then what?

Another pause. The reply landed like a blade.

“I want to watch her suffer. And you’re going to help me. Break her. Humiliate her. Make her regret ever thinking she was worth your attention.”

His breath hitched. His hand trembled with fury. He could almost see her smile behind the words.

He typed, slow this time, deliberate.
EMMRICH: You’re insane.

The dots blinked again. Then:
“No. I’m clever. You’re the one who let me in.”

A second message dropped.
“Proof attached. Just a taste. Keep testing me, and the whole world sees the full thing.”

His thumb hovered over the video. He told himself not to. Not to give her the satisfaction. But he pressed it anyway.

The screen lit.

Her.
Ivy. On the table. Skin flushed, hair wild, lips parted around a cry. His hand moving between her thighs, slick and glistening. His mouth at her throat. Her body arching, surrendering.

Him, looming over her — unmistakable.

His chest clenched so hard he thought his ribs might crack. His mouth went dry, rage pounding in his skull.

He killed the video and set the phone down like it burned. His glass was still on the table, half-full. He snatched it up — and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the far wall, amber streaking down the plaster like blood.

The silence after was deafening.

The phone buzzed again.

He snatched it up, thumb shaking over the screen.

“I’ll be watching you close.”
“I want to be a witness to what you do to her.”
“Make her think she is worthless. Make her beg for your attention and then deny it. Break her down until there’s nothing left.”

His stomach twisted. He typed nothing back.

Another message landed a heartbeat later.

Then the file.

The full video.

He didn’t open it. Not yet. He stared at the icon pulsing on the screen, bile rising in his throat.

A final line from Zara came through.
“Sleep on it, Emmrich. Sweet dreams.”

The silence that followed was heavier than stone.

He dropped the phone onto the table and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until sparks danced in the dark.

But he couldn’t leave it. He couldn’t not look.

He unlocked the phone again — not the message, not the video yet — but her. His Ivy.

Her name in his messages. The last thing she’d written. Are you okay? You were quiet when you left x. He read it three times, thumb hovering, but didn’t reply.

He flipped to Instafade.

Her profile glowed back at him, flawless and distant. The photo. The red dress. Perfect hair, perfect lips, every curve sculpted to torment him. He’d stared at that image every night this week, fist clenched around himself until his vision blurred. Proof of how far she had already undone him.

He scrolled further — the private image she’d sent him, stockings and bra and the delicate line of a thong. He’d told himself he shouldn’t look again, but here it was, in his palm, a dagger dressed as desire.

And then his gaze fell back to the new message. The video file waiting.

His jaw locked. His pulse hammered. He told himself he wouldn’t. That Zara wanted this. That clicking it would be surrender.

He pressed it anyway.

The screen filled with her again. The table. His hand inside her, slick with her ruin. Her body writhing, gasping his name. His own voice rasping back, ruined and ragged. The camera never wavered, catching every moment, every weakness, every sin.

He watched until the end, until the frozen frame burned into his vision.

His throat worked, dry and tight. His hand curled around the phone until the edges cut into his skin.

For the first time, he hated himself for wanting her.

*****

The video ended for a third time, the image frozen on her body, and the room seemed to tilt. His chest heaved against a weight he couldn’t name. He wanted to hurl the phone, burn it, bury it where no one would ever dig it up — but he knew Zara had copies. Destroying this wouldn’t destroy her.

His hand dragged down his face. Silence pressed in on every wall. He couldn’t keep it inside. Not this. Not when she was marked.

He scrolled past names that meant nothing until he found the one that did. Pressed call.

Two rings.

“Volkarin?” Varric’s voice was rough with sleep, but already sharpening. “You know what time it is—”

“I fucked up.” The words tore out before he could stop them, raw and jagged. His throat ached. “She knows, Varric. Zara. She has a video.”

Silence. Then Varric’s voice, low. “…Do I really want to know what this video involves?”

Emmrich’s grip tightened on the phone. A pause. “Her and me. At work. A compromising situation.”

There was a sharp exhale on the other end, followed by a muttered, “Fuck.”

For a moment, nothing but static hummed between them. Then Varric’s voice, harder: “Start from the top.”

Emmrich paced, bare feet soundless on the marble, one hand at the back of his neck. He forced it all out, each word scraping like confession: the slammed door, the shadow in the stairwell, the gutted archive, the burner calls, Solas’s voice in the lift, the messages. The video.

When he finished, silence settled heavy on the line. Then Varric let out a breath, slow, controlled, but his voice cracked with fury underneath. “She’s my niece. I’ve spent half her life keeping wolves off her. And now this.”

Emmrich’s jaw locked. “Zara wants me to hurt her. Humiliate her. Break her down.”

Another pause, then Varric’s voice came back, grim. “If you don’t, she drops the video. Rook burns with you. If you do… at least we buy time.”

“I won’t destroy her,” Emmrich growled, pacing faster, every muscle taut.

“I don’t want you to.” Varric’s voice snapped, harsh with conflict. “But you need to look like you are. To them. You play along. Keep Zara grinning, keep Solas patient. While we work in the shadows.”

Emmrich pressed a fist to his temple, breath sharp through his teeth.

“I’ve got a contact in the Guard,” Varric went on, steadier now, forcing pragmatism through the crack in his voice. “Captain. My wife’s closest friend. She’s solid. I’ll pass along your number. If we need warrants, quiet muscle, she’ll make it happen.”

“I have the Mourn Watch,” Emmrich rasped. His eyes lifted to the skyline, cold glass glittering. “They’ll move when I say.”

“Good. We’ll use them both. The Watch, my contact. We’ll track her burner, dig until we find where Zara’s hiding, drag Johanna out with her. And Solas—” Varric’s voice faltered, then hardened. “Solas doesn’t walk away this time.”

Silence stretched, taut as wire.

Then Varric’s voice dropped, softer, almost pleading. “But until then, Emmrich… you do what you have to. Keep Rook alive. If that means letting her think you’re cold, then you be cold. Better she hates you than she ends up in their hands.”

Emmrich’s chest constricted. He shut his eyes, every word carving him hollow. His breath came rough. His hand trembled where it gripped the phone, slick with sweat. The other braced against the window frame as though the glass itself was holding him upright.

“I don’t think I can do that to her,” he admitted, voice low, raw. “I’ve… I’ve never cared like this for someone.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any threat. His knees nearly buckled, and he sank down onto the arm of the sofa, the phone clutched so tight his knuckles blanched.

When Varric spoke again, his tone was quieter than before, stripped of the dry edge, all uncle and no strategist. “And I’ve never seen her look at anyone the way she does with you. Not once. Not in all her years.”

Emmrich’s throat worked. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, steadying himself against the skyline’s cold glitter. His whole body shook with the effort of holding it together.

The words scraped out, gravel and defeat. “…Fine.”

There was a pause, then Varric’s voice came back, firm but steady, carrying none of the softness now — only resolve. “You can do this. Remember what’s at stake. You’re doing this for her.”

Emmrich shut his eyes, the reminder hitting harder than any threat. 

For her. 

Always for her.

*****

After the call with Varric, the night became about containment. He replayed the sequence in his head like a litany: Zara filming. The files gone. Solas’s voice. The messages. The video. He catalogued each piece not because it hurt less that way, but because it was the only way he knew to keep breathing.

He made the call, and within the hour two of his own men arrived, hauling black cases. They worked without a word, setting up counter-surveillance gear throughout the penthouse: signal jammers, thermal sensors, a second layer of encryption wired across the building’s network. Discreet cameras placed in blind spots. Silent. Efficient. The Watch didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer explanations.

Varric brought Aveline in personally. She filled the doorway of the penthouse like a blade, all sharp eyes and clipped edges, unimpressed by wealth or height or glass walls. She demanded details the moment she stepped inside, voice cutting, relentless. Emmrich gave her only what was essential. Varric smoothed the edges, reminded her this wasn’t just another Guard inquiry, that his niece was caught in the middle of it. That was what tipped the balance. Loyalty won out. Aveline’s mouth pressed thin, and she gave a single, short nod. She’d run Zara’s burner through Guard channels — no warrants, no signatures, nothing official. Just quiet tracing in the dark.

At the long table in his living room, they laid it all out. Papers scattered, Guard reports, Zara’s known haunts. Aveline’s sharp voice cut through the room, demanding precision, while Varric leaned back, tired but alert, his eyes never far from Emmrich’s face. The plan took shape in hard, inevitable strokes. Aveline pressed for something admissible — a recording device, no larger than a tie pin, clipped beneath his collar. If Zara slipped, even once, about the files, they would have her. Enough for a warrant. Enough to crack open her apartment and drag the truth out of hiding.

Emmrich would give her what she wanted. Not the truth — never that — but enough cruelty to make her believe he was bending. Ivy would hate him for it. The thought made his chest burn, but it was necessary. Until Zara grew bold enough to name the files or brag about Johanna, they would wait. They would watch. They would keep Ivy breathing. The Watch already had men posted to shadow her from a distance. She would never know. But he would. Every move, every shadow, she would be accounted for. Safe.

It was late when Aveline finally stood, her face grim, her voice steady. “I’ll move on the burner from my side. You keep her distracted, keep her close. And when Zara talks… we end it.”

Varric lingered longer. He stayed until the Mourn Watch finished installing the first layer of security, until the penthouse bristled with cameras and sensors. He didn’t say much before leaving, only clapped a heavy hand on Emmrich’s shoulder and muttered, “Maker help us if she finds out we’re playing her.”

Emmrich stood at the window long after the others had gone, the city stretched beneath him in a glittering sprawl. The penthouse was wired, guarded, fortified — and yet he had never felt more exposed. His phone lay heavy in his hand, Ivy’s last message still glowing on the screen, unanswered. Beyond the glass, the night was quiet, but he could feel it tightening, a noose drawing in. Friday was coming, and with it, the choice Zara had forced on him. He closed his eyes, jaw locked, and let the silence settle like ash.

Chapter Text

The city outside had gone quiet hours ago, but Emmrich hadn’t moved from the sofa. The security team had come and gone, Varric and Aveline had left, and still he sat there—tie loosened, shirt half undone, the phone heavy in his hand.

Rook’s last message still glowed on the screen: Are you okay? You were quiet when you left x.
He must have read it a hundred times. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, but no reply came. What could he say?

His body betrayed him. The memory of her on the table — flushed, trembling, lips parted — replayed in brutal detail. The ache in his gut never faded. His cock pressed against the fabric of his trousers, as insistent as his pulse.

He dragged a hand down his face. The urge to touch himself was overwhelming, every nerve begging for release. He could feel it in the tightness of his chest, the raw hunger twisting low in his stomach.

But he couldn’t.
Not to the video Zara had sent — never. That filth was a weapon, not hers. And not even to the memory, because it was poisoned now, tainted by the thought of unseen eyes in the shadows.

He shifted forward, elbows braced on his knees, fists clenched so tight his knuckles burned. His erection throbbed, painful, insistent. He pressed the heel of his hand against it through his trousers, hard enough to hurt, willing it down. It only made him gasp.

Sleep was impossible. He sat until the first pale light of dawn seeped into the penthouse, his body aching, his mind raw. The phone still heavy in his hand. The message still unanswered.

By the time Friday began, he felt like a man stretched to breaking — desire and restraint locked in a war with no release.

In the bathroom mirror, the man staring back looked hollow: eyes shadowed, skin pale beneath the harsh light. For a long moment he braced his fists on porcelain, jaw tight.

Then he reached for the ritual. The armour.

Shower, the water turned cold at the end. Razor steady against his skin. Hair slicked back, towel dropped. Shirt changed. Collar crisp, tie knotted with mechanical precision. Jacket straightened, cufflinks in place.

By the time he was finished, the reflection was composed again: CEO of the bank. Predator in a suit. Every line neat and unyielding.

But beneath the polished surface, hunger gnawed. Exhaustion frayed. And the thought of her — trembling beneath him, lips parted, reaching — burned through him like a brand.

When he left for the office, he looked immaculate.
Inside, he was already unraveling.

*****

The boardroom was still when Emmrich entered. He set his fountain pen across the blotter with deliberate care, then sat, posture straight as iron.

The door opened. Varric slipped in, casual as ever, though his eyes sharpened the moment they landed on Emmrich.

“Good. I was hoping to catch you before the rest of the peanut gallery.” He leaned against a chair, arms crossed. “Aveline’s digging. Not much yet, but she’ll turn something up.”

Emmrich gave a clipped nod. “That will suffice.”

“Wire working?”

“Yes. Manfred and I tested it this morning.”

“Good.” Varric’s gaze lingered, steady as stone. “You sure about this?”

“No,” Emmrich said quietly. “But it has to be done.”

Varric shook his head, a dry laugh escaping. “Shit. I can’t believe I’ve got to stand on the sidelines and watch what you’re about to do to her.”

Emmrich’s throat tightened, but his voice stayed even. “I want to do right by her. It’s the least she deserves. Trust me—I wish there was another way. But you saw what she did with Johanna.”

Varric’s jaw flexed. “Oh, she’d take things into her own hands, all right. That’s why we can’t tell her. She’ll act before she thinks. I love that girl to death, but—fuck—she’s stubborn. Act first, think second.”

“Exactly.” Emmrich exhaled slowly, though the word rang hollow.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. The others were arriving.

Varric gave him one last look—half warning, half reluctant trust—before moving to his seat with a muttered, “Maker help us all.”

Zara’s laugh floated closer, high and grating. Emmrich’s mask sealed over him like armour.

*****

The table gleamed under filtered light. He didn’t need to look at it to see her—Rook, sprawled across the polished wood, blouse open, skirt rucked high, fingers clawing at the varnish as he devoured her.

The memory hit without mercy: his hands clamped around her thighs, holding her open when her hips trembled. Her voice breaking on his name, ragged, desperate. Once. Her breath caught, thighs tightening. Twice. Her nails scraped grooves into the gloss. Three. She sobbed against his hair. Four. She shattered, hoarse and undone, and still he hadn’t stopped. He’d wanted to ruin her completely, to bury himself inside her until she could never forget who she belonged to.

The table gleamed now, untouched, but her imprint lived in every grain. And in him.

He sat in the head chair. Composed. Cold. Masked.

The door opened—once, twice—as staff filed in. Varric, his eyes narrowing like he wanted to ask a question but thought better of it. Lucanis, silent as stone. Davrin, already rifling his notes. And Zara, of course—lipstick too pink, perfume too heavy, blouse buttoned low enough to be deliberate. She smirked as she slid into her seat, gaze lingering on him.

He gave her nothing.

Yet, there was no Rook.

He checked the time. 8:46. 8:52. 8:57. His pen strained in his grip until the barrel groaned faintly, a warning that it would snap. He forced his hand to unclench, set it down on the blotter. He stared at the reflection of the lights in the glass wall opposite, jaw locked so tight he could taste blood at the back of his throat. She’s late. That’s all. Not gone. Not yet.

And then—heels.

Sharp, deliberate, slower than usual.
The boardroom door opened at 08:59.

Rook walked in.

Composed. Regal. A vision in black and white—blouse crisp, blazer sharp, skirt hugging the elegant line of her hips. Hair pinned back, not a strand out of place. On the surface, perfection. But he saw what no one else did: the faint smudge beneath one eye. The tension at her mouth. The exhaustion painted over with steel.

She didn’t look at him. Not once.

That cut deeper than any wound.

The meeting began. Zara’s voice filled the room, syrup-sweet and grating. Emmrich responded when required, words cold, precise, lethal. But midway through, his grip on restraint slipped.

Her voice blurred out.

And suddenly he was there again—on his knees between Rook’s thighs, her body bucking beneath his mouth, his tongue relentless. Her taste thick and intoxicating. Her thighs trembling around his head, trying to close, trying to pull him deeper. Her nails digging crescents into the polished table. Emmrich—please— His name, half-sobbed, half-demanded. The slick sound of her breaking apart against his mouth, again, again, until she was wrecked and he was drunk on her.

He shifted in his seat before anyone could notice, pulse hammering, cock straining painfully against his trousers. His jaw locked until his temples throbbed. He curled his fists under the table, nails biting into flesh. Mask. Focus. Now.

Zara’s voice cut back into him, feather-light, feigned sweet: “I think what our clients really want—”

Nails on glass.

Rook’s posture stiffened. Not a glance, not a word, just the faintest tension. He noticed. Of course he did.

His own voice came low, level, absolute:
“I think our clients are less concerned with optics, Miss Renata, and more with results.”

Zara blinked, wrong-footed. “Right, of course. Just trying to anticipate concerns.”

“You may find fewer arise,” he said, words like razors, “if you focus on solving them.”

The silence after was sharp. Lucanis ducked his head to smother a smirk. Dorsen’s quill scratched eagerly. Zara faltered, for once without a comeback.

He didn’t care. He was bleeding under his suit. Bleeding behind his ribs, in the space where her eyes should have been.

The meeting dragged on. Projections. Figures. Nothing that mattered. Only her silence. Only the unbearable distance across the table.

And then it ended.

He didn’t move.
But she did.

Rook rose with sculpted efficiency, every motion clean. As she passed him, he didn’t mean to look. But he did.

Her legs. The sheer line of them. He remembered their weight hooked over his shoulders, remembered the feel of her trembling against his mouth, remembered how badly he had wanted to bury himself inside her and never come up for air.

“Thank you for the productive meeting, Professor.”

Her voice was ice. Precision-cut.

The tick in his jaw betrayed him. She saw it. Of course she did.
And then she walked out. Didn’t look back.

But he watched her go. Because he always would.

*****

The boardroom emptied. He remained. The silence pressed in, thick with the echo of her voice, cold and formal. It hurt worse than anything Zara could ever conjure.

His body moved without thought. Back to his office. Door shut. Locked.

And then the mask broke.

He pressed both palms to the edge of his desk, leaning forward as though the weight in his chest might crush him if he didn’t brace against it. His head bowed, hair falling loose from its comb, shoulders taut with restraint. Her perfume still lingered in the air from where she’d passed behind him, faint, cruel, unforgettable.

He sat, slow, heavy. The leather groaned beneath him. His fists clenched in his lap. He tipped his head back against the chair, eyes to the ceiling, throat raw with words he could not say.

He wanted to call her. Text her. Run after her, confess everything—that he had stopped them not because he didn’t want her, but because he wanted her too much. That every hour without her was a wound. That he was breaking.

But he did nothing.

Because wanting her hadn’t stopped Zara.
Because needing her hadn’t kept Rook safe.
Because love, apparently, wasn’t enough.

*****

He wasn’t supposed to be there when Varric brought her in.

Emmrich had just needed tea. Something to hold. Something to stop his hands from shaking. He’d chosen the break room at this time, thinking it would be empty, that all staff would be busy with the morning rush.

That it would be silent.

Safe.

Then he heard Varric’s voice. The keycard lock clicked. The door opened.

And she walked in behind the shorter man.

Blood on her hand, seeping through her clenched fist.

He hadn’t even straightened. Just watched her. Every part of him going still.

Rook sat with her back to him—deliberate. A wall made of posture. And still he felt her. Like a storm humming against his skin.

She didn’t look at him. Wouldn’t.

He didn’t blame her, and yet it hurt more than it should have.

When Varric spoke, Emmrich didn’t register the words. Only the sound of her breath. The faint tremble in her fingers. The too-casual tone she used to dismiss concern, as if she wasn’t actively bleeding across the table.

He saw the drop hit the surface. Bright red. Too fast.

He was moving before he thought. Reaching for her hand. She tensed at his touch—and it struck him harder than the blood ever could.

Emmrich remembered when her body welcomed him. When her eyes found him across a room, and softened. When she let him touch her like he was the only one allowed to.

Now her fingers recoiled.

He masked it well. Quiet. Calm. Mechanical.

He examined the cut. Washed his hands like it meant nothing. Dismissed Varric like it was routine. All theatre.

Because inside, he was unraveling.

Every glance, every silence between them was another wound.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

He sat close—closer than he should’ve—but she didn’t move away. Just stiffened. Like his presence was a punishment.

He wanted to say her name.

Not her nickname. Not formalities. Not Miss Ingellvar. Just Ivy. Soft. Human.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

Rook winced as he cleaned the cut. He didn’t flinch. Couldn’t afford to.

And when she fired back with sarcasm, with that tired, wounded bitterness—he nearly dropped it all. Nearly told her.

That this wasn’t about control. Or rules. Or keeping things professional.

It was about fear.

Fear of how much he wanted her. How far he’d already gone to protect her. How close Zara was to tearing it all down.

But he didn’t say it.

He wrapped the bandage. Clean, tight, precise.

And let go of her hand like it burned him.

Because it did.

When she stood and snapped, he let her. When she tossed her final words at him—Fine. Next time I’ll call someone else—he bit his tongue so hard it nearly bled.

Because he wanted to yell. To curse. To drag her back by the wrist and tell her this mattered.

That she mattered.

But he couldn’t.

That he couldn’t keep her safe.

So he said the worst thing he could think of.

“It was a lapse in judgment.”

He watched it land. Like a blade in the belly.

She matched it. Word for word.

“It was a mistake.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything they didn’t say.

He let her walk away.

And when the door clicked shut, he sank into the nearest chair.

He didn’t move for a long time.

He couldn’t.

Because everything inside him had already gone with her.

*****

Emmrich hadn’t wanted to see her again that soon.

Not after the break room. Not after the bandages, the silence, the way she looked at him like he was something sharp she’d once mistaken for safety.

But the Mourn Watch had checked in. Aveline had confirmed she had Guards ready and waiting to storm Zara’s apartment. They just needed a warrant. And if Zara didn’t slip up, the chance might vanish. So he met with Varric one floor down, tension tight in his spine as he lingered and waited. Knowing Zara would take the bait once she heard Emmrich was floating around on her floor, a few feet away from her room for the day.

“No admission?” Varric asked through his teeth.

“Not yet.” Emmrich kept his face calm, composed.

He had to keep pushing.

So he stood at the water cooler.

A stupid, mundane little place. But centrally located. In view.

Zara found him there like a vulture finds carrion. She sidled up, full of effortless smirks and the kind of perfume that gave him a headache.

She leaned in close. Her voice a syrupy purr.

“You don’t have to keep pretending, you know. I’m not completely heartless. If she meant nothing to you, it wouldn’t hurt this much to look bored.”

He kept his face neutral. Blank. The CEO mask.

He wanted to shove her away. Scrub her voice from his skin. But instead he nodded once, slow and almost imperceptible, as if in agreement.

It was part of the performance.

Zara had to believe he was following orders. That he was willing to let Rook suffer. That she still had control.

And then—

Footsteps.

He heard them before he saw her.

Emmrich didn’t need to turn to know who it was. But she passed close enough for the scent of her shampoo to cut through the haze of Zara’s sickly perfume.

Rook.

He looked. Just once.

Just enough.

And then he forced himself to look away.

To look past her. Through her. As if she were no more meaningful than the air in the hallway.

He felt it instantly.

The crack it made inside him. The sickness of it.

Zara didn’t miss it. She leaned a little closer.

“Good boy,” she whispered. “Almost convincing.”

Emmrich didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

He just swallowed the weight of it.

Because to her, it had looked like indifference.

But to him?

It had felt like betrayal.

And he wasn’t sure how many more of those he could survive.

*****

He told himself it was about the access permissions.

That was the excuse. The justification. It was clean, bureaucratic. A task. Nothing more.

But the truth was simpler, filthier: he just needed to see her.

She hadn’t looked at him since the break room. Not properly. Not in the way that used to undo him — eyes curious, hungry, soft in their defiance.

Now, everything between them was static. Sharp. Burnt.

And still, he wanted more.

He stood outside her office door, one hand curled into a fist so tight his nails bit his palm. Then: one knock. Sharp. Measured.

The door opened. He stepped inside.

Immediately, the room shrank around him. Her presence filled it. Her scent hit first — subtle but unmistakable. Something warm. Clean. The same he’d buried his face into the night before.

His control wavered.

She didn’t stand. Didn’t speak.

Good. He didn’t deserve courtesy.

“Miss Ingellvar,” he said, voice cold by necessity, not by nature. “I’ve come to activate your access permissions and finalise your reassignment under my management.”

He saw the flicker in her eyes — something close to a wince — but she masked it well.

When she replied, her tone was neutral, but he felt the sting underneath. Felt it like a lash against skin.

He crossed the room and took her laptop.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t want to.

If he asked, she might say no. If she said no, he might crack.

He typed. Fast. Efficient. It kept his hands busy. Kept his mind from circling around the memory of her voice moaning into his mouth, her thighs locked around him.

He hadn’t touched himself since.

Couldn’t.

It would feel like theft. Like desecration.

She spoke again—something sharp, cloaked in calm. A question. A provocation.

He replied with one word. “Distracted.”

The understatement of the fucking year.

He felt her shift behind him. Leaning back, folding her arms.

The sound of her voice had a physical effect on him now. It lived in his spine. In the ache behind his teeth.

She said something that made his throat tighten.

She’d thought he meant it.

He had.

He still did.

He paused in his typing. Just for a second. Just enough that she’d notice. Then he resumed, faster, as if movement could erase what she’d said.

She stepped around him. Put distance between them. And still it wasn’t enough. He could feel her.

Then she said it.

“You kissed me.”

The words hit like a fist to the chest.

“You waited outside my building.”

He had.

“You read my message and drove home.”

Yes.

“And then nothing.”

Because if he’d answered, he would have told her everything. And the wire was always listening.

She asked if this was his version of damage control.

His hands tightened around the edge of the desk. His knuckles blanched.

Then—Zara’s name.

That cut deeper than the rest.

He looked up.

Just once.

And she saw it. The fracture.

She saw everything.

He shut it down fast, but not fast enough.

He defaulted to cold professionalism. Called her talented. Efficient. Said he trusted her work.

Because if he said I trust you, it would be a confession.

And the wire would win.

She said he didn’t trust her. Not enough to reply. Not enough to be a person.

He didn’t answer.

Because the truth was worse than silence.

She dismissed him. Formally. Flatly. With all the dignity he’d stripped from her.

He stood. Nodded. Said what she wanted to hear. If that’s what you prefer.

But Maker, he didn’t prefer it.

He wanted to kneel.

He wanted to beg.

He wanted to take her hands and kiss the pulse of her wrist until she forgave him.

Instead, he turned.

Left.

And when the door closed behind him, the silence wrapped around his throat like rope.

He didn’t breathe until he was out of range.

Didn’t speak until the wire was powered down.

And then, in the privacy of an empty stairwell, Emmrich braced a hand against the wall—head bowed—and finally let the sound leave his chest.

It wasn’t a sob.

But it was close.

*****

It began with footsteps.

Not the soft shuffle of a teller. Not the timid tread of a client. No. This was the clipped, confident stride of someone who thought the world made space for him.

Cullen Rutherford.

Emmrich recognised him before he even saw him. The tempo, the inflection in his greeting — as if every word he uttered was already a charm waiting to be spent.

“Afternoon, ladies.”

Fuck.

The sound of his voice made Emmrich’s teeth grit — low, polished, warm. The kind of voice that women were trained to trust.

Emmrich didn’t look directly at him.

He didn’t need to.

He saw Rook instead.

The shift in her spine. The spark in her tone. The way she leaned just a little toward the counter, lip twitching with the kind of smirk she hadn’t shown him in days. Something mean and hungry twisted in his gut.

She’s doing this on purpose.

He knew it the moment she tilted her head — the precise angle, the deliberate smoothness of her voice.

“Mr. Rutherford. Back so soon?”

She knew he was watching.

She wanted him to watch.

And Maker help him, he couldn’t look away.

Cullen said something flippant. A joke. The words landed like sparks in dry brush.

Emmrich didn’t hear them — not truly. His ears roared with blood. His gaze swept the room, a calm, surgical mask, but beneath it his chest constricted, throat parched, heat crawling up the back of his neck until he thought his collar might scorch.

He shifted his stance once. Subtle. Controlled. But his knuckles whitened where his hand brushed the edge of the desk, as if the grain alone could ground him.

Varric muttered something at his side — a joke, an attempt to cut the tension — but it came muffled, drowned by the sound of Cullen’s voice. That insufferable rhythm. Bold, unapologetic, charming in the way of men who thought the world was theirs to toy with. A tone angled now at her.

And it was unbearable.

He wanted to kill him. To tear his smug throat open and silence him forever.

No — worse. He wanted to show him. To cross the distance, grip Rook’s wrist, and drag her against his chest until the air left her lungs. To shove her down over the table, fingers fisting in her hair, and rip her skirt up high enough that every man in the room could see the marks he’d left on the soft skin of her thighs. To drive into her until her voice cracked on his name, until she shook and broke apart on his cock, and Cullen’s smirk turned to ashes.

He wanted to bend her until she wept. To press her cheek to polished wood while his hand circled her throat and his other branded her hip, while her nails scraped helpless lines across the surface beneath her. To make her cry out, undone and desperate, until there was no mistaking — not for her, not for anyone — who owned her.

Heat pulsed in his chest, a violent rhythm, his cock already hard against the line of his trousers just at the thought.

But he did none of it. Could do none of it. Because if he moved, if he let even a shred of that desire spill through, he would not stop.

So he stood still, calm as a corpse, while the need to claim her — to ruin her — threatened to eat him alive.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because this was his fault.

He had pushed her. He had closed that distance. He had pretended she meant nothing, and now she was showing him what that looked like. Now, another man stood in his place, and she smiled at him.

His hand curled at his side, one knuckle cracking under the pressure.

Then — he saw it.

The pen. The card. Her handwriting.

She was giving him her number.

Her number.

Emmrich inhaled sharply through his nose. A mantra spun behind his eyes.

Stay still.

Stay silent.

You did this. You chose this.

Let her hate you if it keeps her safe.

Cullen pocketed the card like it was a trophy. Her laughter — real, not forced — followed a moment later. It lanced through Emmrich like a blade.

Then came the kiss.

Not a peck. Not an airbrush. Not accidental.

Cullen lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

And Rook didn’t pull away.

A split second passed. Something inside Emmrich snapped.

Not audibly. Not visibly. But deep in the marrow of him.

Mine.

He swallowed it down.

Behind his mask, he could feel his pulse thudding at his throat. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. He just watched.

When Cullen finally turned to leave, Emmrich’s eyes didn’t follow him.

They stayed on Rook.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. Not really. Her expression had settled back into something cold. Controlled.

But the damage was done.

She had wounded him — publicly, precisely — and he deserved every second of it.

*****

The vault door hissed shut behind them.

It sealed the world out with a pressurised click — blessed silence. No customers, no eyes, no laughter. Just concrete, steel, and her.

And the echo of that fucking kiss still hanging in his brain like smoke.

Rook crouched by the safe without a word. Her movements were swift, mechanical — no flirtation, no teasing. Just professionalism.

It should have pleased him. It didn’t.

Because her silence now only reminded him of how animated she’d been moments ago. How she’d let Cullen flirt with her like it meant something. How she’d written out her number with a smile that he hadn’t seen in days.

Emmrich stood at the back of the room, arms crossed tightly, teeth locked behind the press of his tongue. He watched her from the shadows — the curve of her spine, the confident economy in her hands. She was calm. Precise.

Too precise.

It meant she was just as tightly wound as he was.

He exhaled slowly, but it didn’t settle the storm inside him. The vault felt too warm. His collar was too tight. The scent of her was everywhere — faint perfume, caramel, skin, memory.

And still—his hands itched.

His mouth still burned.

I had her the table - my table. He hand-fisted in my hair. She moaned for me. Begged for me. Maker, she tasted like honey and sin—

He blinked hard, dragging his mind back from the edge. Control. He forced himself to speak.

“Professional.”

The word dropped like ice between them.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.

“Is that meant to be a compliment or an accusation?” she asked coolly.

“Handled Mr. Rutherford well,” he said — tone clipped, surgical.

“Handled?” she echoed. “He’s a customer. A valuable one, with over nine figures invested in this branch.”

The venom in her voice bit deep. He felt it. She’s still playing the game.

He stepped closer.

“A customer who was seconds away from closing his accounts — until you flirted your way into his good graces.”

That got her. She turned now, eyes sharp, chin lifted.

“Is this about Cullen?” she demanded. “Or is it because someone else was interested in me?”

Yes.

Maker, yes to both.

But the words stayed locked behind his teeth.

Instead, he met her gaze without blinking, jaw clenched so tight it throbbed. “I’m your director. Don’t mistake indulgence for immunity.”

“Oh, believe me,” she said, stepping toward him, “there’s nothing indulgent about you.”

The heat in the vault surged.

He took one more step. She didn’t retreat.

“You think I crossed a line?” she asked. “Fine. Report me. Tell head office their frontline supervisor saved a VIP account and committed the cardinal sin of having a personality.”

He was breathing harder now. He could feel it. Not enough oxygen. Not enough control. And then she said it—

“You don’t like that someone else noticed something worth looking at.”

Something in him ruptured.

He smiled.

But it wasn’t kind.

“You think that was admiration?” he said, voice low, cold, merciless. “That was novelty. Curiosity. Just like when people slow down to gawk at car crashes.”

Her face cracked. The words hit harder than he’d intended. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Because if he let her see the truth — that he was unravelling, that he wanted to fall to his knees and worship her — then it would all come apart.

He stepped even closer.

“Men like him don’t want you, Rook. They want the act. The mask. Because the second they see what’s underneath—”

He didn’t finish.

Because he couldn’t.

Because the words that came next would have been - I loved what I saw.

And he couldn’t let himself say that.

Not now.

Not when Zara had eyes everywhere. Not when this was the only way to keep her safe — to make her leave him before it destroyed them both.

Then she laughed.

Sharp. Hollow. Wounded.

And the shame came crashing in like a wave.

“Thank you for the confirmation, sir,” she said bitterly.

She slammed the stack of notes against his chest. He let them hit, didn’t move to take them. Just stood there and watched her fall apart with every controlled breath she took.

“I know I’m messed up. I know I’m not wanted. Not even good enough to scrape second best. But let me tell you one thing…”

Her voice broke, and so did something in his chest.

“I am damn good at my job.”

He wanted to reach for her then. Fuck, just reach. Grab her wrist, press her hand to his chest and show her how fast it beat for her.

But he stayed frozen.

“And the real difference between you and him?” she said, stepping toward the vault door. “Cullen saw me. Even if just for a moment. And he didn’t look away.”

Then came the final blow.

“You know… he might’ve only seen the performance. But at least he wasn’t pretending I was invisible.”

She left.

Didn’t look back.

And Emmrich just stood there.

Alone. Rigid. Hands clenched so tight the bones ached. His throat burned. He felt sick. Like something had hollowed out his chest and left a fire in its place.

He pressed one palm to the edge of the counter where he’d once kissed her, just to feel something solid.

And for the first time that day—

He almost broke.

*****

The vault door had barely shut before Emmrich forced himself to move. To breathe. To collect.

He couldn’t allow a moment of weakness.

Instead, he smoothed his cuffs. Adjusted his posture. Slipped the mask back on.

Then stepped out as if nothing inside him had just burned.

The floor hummed with noise — customers, tills, chatter. Normalcy painted like a stage backdrop. But every sense he had was still locked on her.

Rook didn’t look up as he passed. Her hands moved deftly over the register, her eyes fixed ahead. That same stillness from earlier, when she’d flirted so perfectly with Cullen — it had returned. But now… now it was steel.

And it wasn’t for him.

He resumed his position beside Varric, arms folded, face schooled. Every line of his posture was composed. But inside?

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d shoved the money against his chest. The crack in her voice. The fury behind her mask.

He clenched his jaw so hard the muscles ached. He barely heard Varric speaking beside him, some throwaway comment about the floor layout, about service efficiency.

Then something shifted.

A flicker on the till display. A small ping.

SURVEY NOTIFICATION: CLIENT EXPERIENCE FEEDBACK.

Two, back-to-back.

He saw it on her screen from the corner of his eye — not the words, just the rhythm. The way her fingers hovered, paused, clicked. The faint movement of her lips as she read. Her shoulders held a fraction straighter than before.

Then Neve leaned in. Whispered something. Rook showed her the screen.

And Neve’s face lit up with an unholy glint.

Emmrich didn’t move.

Not when Neve turned toward them with exaggerated sweetness. Not when she called them over like it was a fucking tea party.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” she said. “Would you mind coming over for a moment?”

Varric moved first, ever casual. Emmrich followed, hands clasped behind his back, spine locked straight. Every step was performed, deliberate. Unbreakable.

He approached the counter. Rook didn’t meet his eye.

“Rook just received two client surveys,” Neve said brightly. “I thought you might want to see the feedback, considering the audit.”

He said nothing.

Didn’t even blink.

Just looked at the screen when she moved aside and let the words speak.

Cullen Rutherford.
“Quick, clever, and dangerously charming.”
“She changed my mind — with nothing more than a smile and a pen.”
“If she ever leaves this branch, so will I.”

The next one:

Evie and Franny.
“Kind, patient, and made my daughter feel important.”
“The woman who served us made it easy — and even fun.”
“People like her are why I stay with this bank.”

Emmrich felt it like a punch to the gut.

He stared at the words, not once, but twice. The ache behind his eyes built. His jaw locked.

The woman he had tried so hard to push away — to bury beneath orders and hierarchy and cruelty — had just received two glowing reviews. From a VIP and a fucking child. In the same day.

She’s brilliant, he thought. And I’m fucking breaking her.

“She saved his account,” Neve said, all teeth behind her grin. “VIP retention. We should get her a muffin.”

Varric chuckled. Emmrich did not.

He couldn’t.

Because that five-star review? That wasn’t just about her performance.

It was about her ability to connect.

To charm.

To make people stay — even him, when he’d spent every second trying to leave.

And she’d done it in front of him. Not to spite him, but because that’s who she is.

A girl who looked like danger, but made five-year-olds feel grown-up.

He swallowed tightly.

Then Neve said it. The kill shot.

“Five-star service. And a reminder that performance isn’t always about being silent and cold.”

His mask slipped—barely. A twitch in the cheek. A microsecond of heat in his eyes.

He wanted to grab the screen, the survey, the whole fucking terminal and throw it.

But he didn’t.

He stepped back with measured grace.

And walked away.

*****

Zara was laughing again. That sharp, syrupy cadence she used when she wanted something — attention, admiration, advantage. Emmrich didn’t look up from his tablet. He heard her, filed it, dismissed it.

His eyes skimmed the evaluation notes he’d written for Ambrose. His pen moved in short, deliberate ticks — factual, unsentimental. Competent under pressure. Slightly overconfident. Recommend additional security training.

But the pen stilled before the final mark.

He could see Rook in his periphery. Not her face — her posture. Composed. Poised. Her fingers danced across the keyboard with precision. She was working. That should have been enough.

But his jaw was tight. His spine locked rigid in the chair.

She hadn’t looked at him since returning from the vault. Not once.

She hadn’t flinched when she’d handed him the cash. Hadn’t shaken. Hadn’t broken.

She hadn’t looked back.

He was the one who’d left shaking.

Keep it together. Stay composed.

He adjusted his cufflinks even though they were already straight. A practised motion, a lie his hands could tell for him. He didn’t trust them not to tremble otherwise.

He replayed the vault. Her eyes. Her voice. That final line.

He might’ve only seen the performance. But at least he wasn’t pretending I was invisible.

He’d heard her pain and still said nothing. Let her walk away. It was supposed to protect her.

But now…

Now she was laughing with Neve. At ease. Typing. Beautiful in her defiance.

And the only thing he could think about was Cullen’s mouth on her hand. Cullen’s voice. Cullen’s confidence. Her number in Cullen’s pocket.

Emmrich had tasted her. Felt her. He knew what it was to watch her shatter on his conference four times in a row, begging for more.

And now he had to sit here — quiet, calm — while she turned her smile on someone else.

His fingers tightened around the pen until the plastic creaked.

*****

The printer hissed softly — that short, mechanical exhale he’d heard a hundred times today.

But this one landed wrong.

His gaze flicked over as Varric moved. Casual. Almost absent-minded. The page slid out. Varric reached. Paused.

Then… froze.

The shift was microscopic but immediate — a weight in the room. Varric’s entire body stilled, his shoulders squaring, brow furrowing.

Emmrich felt it like a tremor under his skin.

Rook approached slowly.

His field of vision narrowed, ears catching only the scrape of a chair leg, the click of a heel, the faint crinkle of paper being turned in Varric’s hand.

Then she said something—quiet, contained.

Varric’s response was lower still. A warning. A memory.

“You don’t get to disappear on me again, Rook.”

Emmrich’s stomach dropped. Cold and sudden.

He stood.

Varric didn’t look at him. Just held the page out like a reckoning.

Emmrich took it with steady fingers. Read.

And the world stopped moving.

A resignation letter.

Her resignation letter.

No signature yet. Just her name typed neatly at the bottom, waiting.

It wasn’t final.

But it would be.

The paper barely weighed a gram — but it hit like a brick to the chest.

And for one split second, he almost ripped it in two.

The paper curled slightly in Emmrich’s grip.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t defend himself.

Because there was no defense.

He had driven her to this.

It had to be this way.

Didn’t it?

He told himself it was working. That pushing her away was working. That it was better she was angry, disillusioned — free — than entwined in the mess he couldn’t let her see.

But if she left… really left…

He would never see her again.

And that thought hit harder than anything he had endured so far that day.

*****

“My office. Now.”

The words left his mouth before he could temper them. Cold. Commanding.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t wait.

He turned and walked, each step calculated, not because he felt calm — but because if he didn’t pretend calm, he might unravel completely.

He heard her follow. A few paces behind.

He didn’t check. Didn’t need to.

The door hadn’t even clicked shut.

“You’re resigning?”

The words tore out of him before he could filter them — sharp, immediate, uncontained. He stood in the centre of the room like a man bracing for impact, spine stiff, breath clipped. She’d barely crossed the threshold, but already, it felt like she was halfway gone.

Rook stilled. Centre of the room. Composed. Controlled.

“Yes,” she said, voice smooth as polished glass.

It didn’t match what he’d seen in her eyes earlier — the ache, the fire, the wound still fresh from the vault. But she wasn’t giving him that now. Not here. Not in this moment. She was pure steel.

“You were just going to walk away?” he demanded, disbelief biting into every syllable. “Without giving me an explanation?”

His voice had a crack in it — he heard it, hated it. It made him sound wounded. Desperate. Weak.

She met him with silence edged like a knife. “You said enough for both of us.”

And just like that, his ribs collapsed inward. The air inside his lungs turned acidic. She wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. He’d meant to push her away — protect her, even — but the words he’d chosen in the vault had gone too deep. Had cut with precision.

He took a step forward before he could stop himself.

“Ivy.”

It came out quiet. A breath. A surrender. The name he almost never used, because it was sacred. Hers. And now, somehow, it felt like a prayer he had no right to say aloud.

But she turned her head — slowly, deliberately — and met his eyes.

“Don’t say my name like it means something.”

He flinched.

The letter in his hand suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. He looked down at it — as if maybe, just maybe, the act of reading it again would undo the damage. Reverse time. Give him another moment, another chance to say something better.

But then she was moving.

She crossed the room without hesitation — a storm with her chin held high — and snatched the letter from his hand like she was reclaiming a piece of herself. Her fingers didn’t tremble. Not like his had.

“No—” he started, a step already forming beneath him.

“Rook—”

Too late.

She was already at his desk.

Already picking up the pen he’d used this morning to sign an investment agreement worth millions. Now, she was using it to end everything that mattered.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Each stroke of her signature was surgical — the ink smooth, final, unforgiving. Her body leaned over the desk like a figure etched in marble. He could smell her perfume — faint, familiar, the same one that still clung to his sheets — and it made him want to be sick.

By the time he reached her, it was done.

She turned and held out the paper, her signature bold and defiant at the bottom.

“There. Now it’s official.”

He stared at it.

At her.

“I’m not taking that,” he said, low and tight.

Her hand didn’t drop.

“You don’t get to pick and choose when to hold onto me.”

His throat locked. His jaw flexed once, twice — but his voice came out even. Detached. Like it wasn’t personal. Like he wasn’t drowning.

“You’re overreacting.”

He regretted the words before they even left his mouth.

She exploded.

“Overreacting?” Her voice cracked like lightning. “You called me a fucking car crash, Emmrich. You made me feel like a joke. And now you’re standing there like I’m being hysterical?”

“You’re twisting my words,” he said too quickly, defensive and unsteady. “I never said you were a joke—”

“You didn’t have to!”

The shout cut through him. He didn’t even blink. Couldn’t.

“You looked at me like I was something to regret. Like I was just this... messy, pathetic little thing that someone like you could never really want.”

He opened his mouth.

No words came out.

Because she wasn’t pathetic — she was powerful, radiant, impossible to look away from — and that’s exactly why he’d tried so fucking hard to pretend he didn’t want her.

“And you know what really pisses me off?” she choked. “I still care. After everything you said—after how cruel you were—I still fucking care what you think.”

He stared at her. Shaken to the core.

“Say something, Emmrich. Go on. Rip into me again. I know you’ve got something clever locked and loaded.”

But he didn’t. Not this time.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said.

The words felt too small. Too late.

Her eyes burned. Too fast. Like the pain had reached her before she even registered it.

“Well, congratulations,” she whispered. “You did.”

Then she shoved the letter against his chest — hard.

He didn’t resist. He took it.

Not because he wanted to.

Because she gave him no other choice.

And then she turned.

Her hand closed around the handle.

Her voice — cracked and splintering — fell like a blade.

“I’m not second best. Not anymore.”

The door slammed.

The echo was brutal.

And Emmrich stood in the wreckage, holding the proof that he’d destroyed the only thing he ever wanted to keep.

*****

The door slammed.

The sound rolled through the room, thunder in the bones — and then there was nothing.

Stillness.

Silence.

He didn’t move.

The letter trembled faintly in his grip, crushed now, edges curling from where she’d shoved it into his chest. Her name stared back at him from the bottom of the page — ink bold, unapologetic, final.

Ivy Ingellvar.

He traced it with his eyes.

The woman who’d called him cruel.

Who’d stood in his office like she didn’t bleed.

Who’d cared for him despite every cold defence he’d thrown up — and who had finally, finally stopped waiting for him to come back to her.

His breath came thin. Measured.

One wrong inhale and he might fall apart.

He walked, slowly — almost blindly — to the drinks cabinet near the bookcase. Not the desk. He didn’t want to look at the surface where she’d just carved her name into their ending.

He poured whiskey.

Didn’t bother with a glass.

One mouthful burned down his throat. Then another.

The silence had a weight to it now. It filled the walls. It pressed into his spine. The ghosts of her voice still hung in the air — the anger, the grief, the truth she had spat like broken glass.

“You looked at me like I was something to regret.”

He sat down on the sofa, bottle in hand, elbows on his knees.

Still no tears. He hadn’t cried in years. He doubted he remembered how.

But the ache beneath his ribs was unbearable.

He’d told himself this was right. Safer. Smarter.

He’d buried his desire, choked on his guilt, restrained every goddamn instinct that told him to protect her — love her — keep her.

And now she was gone.

Of course she was gone.

She’d held on longer than he had any right to expect.

And still, he’d hoped.

Still, some foolish part of him thought she’d stay. That he’d have time to fix it. That she’d forgive him like she always had, just once more.

He brought the bottle back to his lips and took another long drag.

His hands shook.

Not from rage.

Not from drink.

Just from the sudden, horrifying truth that he had made this happen.

He’d told her she wasn’t wanted.

And now she believed him.

A knock came at the door.

Emmrich didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

The door opened anyway.

Varric stepped inside, quiet, eyes hard.

He glanced at the bottle, then at the crumpled paper on the coffee table, then at Emmrich — who looked every inch the man who’d won every war but lost the only battle that mattered.

“You look like shit,” Varric said.

Emmrich didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence said enough.

Varric shut the door behind him with the same weight Rook had. No slam — just finality. Like even he knew there was no going back from this.

He didn’t speak at first. Just walked over, took the bottle from Emmrich’s hand, and helped himself to a long sip.

Then he sat.

Not across from Emmrich — beside him. Like an old friend sitting vigil after a funeral.

They sat a long time in silence.
The resignation letter lay on the coffee table, Rook’s name scrawled at the bottom like a wound neither of them could look away from.

Varric was the first to speak. His voice was low, rough.
“We said this was the right call. That it’d keep her safe.”

Emmrich didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His jaw ached with the effort of holding it shut.

Varric huffed a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Maker, I backed you. Told myself if she didn’t know, she wouldn’t run headfirst into danger. That you pushing her away would draw the fire onto you instead.” His hand raked through his hair, slow and weary. “I believed it. I really did.”

He leaned back, shoulders heavy against the sofa. “But looking at that?” He nodded toward the letter. “Tell me what the hell we actually saved her from.”

Silence stretched, sharp and suffocating.

“She trusted us,” Varric said at last, quieter now. “Both of us. And we decided for her. Like she couldn’t handle the truth. Like she wasn’t strong enough.” His voice cracked, just faintly. “That’s on me as much as it is on you.”

Emmrich’s chest constricted, each breath drawn through glass. He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t afford to.

Varric’s gaze stayed fixed on the letter. “We told ourselves it was noble. That it was necessary. But it wasn’t protection. It wasn’t shielding her. It was taking the choice out of her hands.” He exhaled hard, shaking his head. “And now she thinks she’ll never be enough.”

That cut deeper than anything Rook had said.
Because Emmrich already knew it.

He gritted his teeth. “She’ll be safer if she’s not near me.”

Varric scoffed. “Safer doesn’t mean whole. It doesn’t mean happy. You keep trying to turn her into a number in a risk column. She’s not a liability. She’s a goddamn person. And we broke her.”

Emmrich’s hand curled on his knee. Knuckles white.
“I know.”

The two words were hollow.

Varric turned to him fully now, eyes sharp. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

“She’d already signed it.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Varric’s voice rose — not yelling, just steel sharpened to a point. “You let her walk out that door. You told yourself it was mercy. But it wasn’t. It was fear.”

A beat.
Then another.

“She would’ve stayed,” Varric said, quieter now. “She would’ve stayed if you’d given her one reason. One. If you’d just looked at her like she was more than the mess you made her feel like.”

Emmrich swallowed, hard.
“She was never second best,” he said hoarsely. “Not to me.”

Varric nodded slowly. “Then why did you make her feel like she was?”

The silence after that wasn’t peaceful.
It hurt.
Every second dragged with all the weight of what hadn’t been said in time.

At last, Emmrich broke it, his voice low, strained.
“Things have spiralled worse than I anticipated. Do you…” he hesitated, eyes closing for a moment. “Do you think we should have told her?”

Varric was quiet for a long beat before answering. Then he shook his head.
“You saw what happened with Johanna. Rook would’ve flown straight for Zara. They’ve always had that hate thing between them. Zara was Johanna and Solas’ favourite, and she got away with bloody murder. Rook was one of the only ones to ever call her out, to her face. If she knew the truth right now, she’d already be halfway to gutting Zara herself. And without those files? We’d have nothing. No proof of the shit they pulled, no leverage.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Emmrich hung his head in his hands.

“I keep trying to rationalise to myself. This is the better option.”

“It is,” Varric said, but the words lacked conviction. “That video would destroy her career and her self-worth. Once this is done, you can tell her everything. And if she won’t listen, I’ll make sure she understands what went on. I’ll tell her how much it broke you to do it. That it wasn’t cruelty. It was the only way you saw.”

Emmrich said nothing.
Didn’t move.

The letter stared back at them.

At last, Varric stood. “You want to lose her? Fine. Let her walk. Let someone else pick up the pieces. But don’t pretend it was for her sake.”

He stepped toward the door, then paused.

“You love her. That’s obvious. But maybe she needed more than love. Maybe she needed to be fought for.”

The door clicked shut.

And Emmrich was alone again.
Still staring at her name.
Still holding the ghost of her signature like it might start bleeding.

Chapter Text

Tuesday Morning - Flashback- the day after Emmrich met Ivy

Emmrich woke hard.

Steel-blue light under the curtains, no sun yet. The sheet was a tent over his stomach; his cock heavy against his thigh, flushed and aching, the head already sticky. He lay still for a moment, counted to ten, told himself to breathe.

His body didn’t care.

He reached for the phone, the glass cool against his palm. One thumbprint and Instafade was right where he’d abandoned it last night: Rook in red.

Not gala red.

Not deep red.

Sinner red. 

Liquid silk poured over her—neckline a dare, her breasts threatening to spill free, slit high enough to show the hinge of her thigh. The caption was a single blood-red emoji. The comments were a wall of open mouths: hearts, flames, laughing hunger from men who didn’t deserve to say her name.

He spread the image with two fingers. Zoom. Her mouth was parted like she was about to laugh. The silk cupped the tender underside of her breasts, bit her waist, then split at her thigh as she shifted her weight. He could feel the fabric just looking at it—cool at first, then warming under a palm, then giving.

Last night should have been enough. He’d already jerked off to this—twice. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do it again in the morning.

His free hand slid under the sheet anyway.

Even this had rules. He wrapped his fingers around the thick base and stroked once—slow, testing the drag. Precum pearled and he spread it with his thumb, slick easing the second pass. Heat climbed his spine. A quiet hiss leaked between his teeth.

Swipe. Second slide: a six-second clip. She turned and the slit breathed—red yawning open on her thigh and closing again. A friend laughed off-camera. Rook didn’t laugh; she tipped her chin and the room obeyed.

“Maker,” he muttered, a prayer or a curse, no one to hear which.

His thumb hovered over the message field. 

You — delete. 

That dress — delete.

He gave up. 

He punished himself by going back to the photo, cataloguing it like evidence: shine on her bottom lip, the clean line where silk became skin. The deep dip of her cleavage and how he wanted nothing more to ram his cock there and fuck her heavy tits until he painted her in his release.

His grip tightened. The fantasy walked in and locked the door.

The zipper under his fingers, sliding. Silk bunched in his fist, the dry little rasp of it when he rucked it up to her waist and didn’t take it off. Keep it on. Her hands on the floor length mirror in his bedroom , breath fogging a soft halo where her mouth would be. His palm at her throat. Her voice not joking when she said his name. 

Beg properly. 

Say please . 

Her knees easing apart because she wanted to, not because he forced her.

He stroked faster, the heel of his hand grinding down at the root, a rhythm he could set a metronome to. Veins stood under the skin; his balls drew tight. The room narrowed to the white square of light and the wet rub of his fist. Comments crawled under the picture—names he knew, men he would destroy if jealousy were a legal cause.

“No,” he told the little hearts, breath rough. “Not for them.”

He edged himself because that’s who he was—hold, hold, release, again; cruelty dressed as discipline. The ache sharpened until it was a clean, bright pain. The fantasy disobeyed him anyway. It always did in his head. The mirror trembled. Her lipstick was gone and she was saying please without pride.

He came with a stifled sound, jaw clenched, heat striping his abdomen in thick, hot ropes. His cock twitched in his fist—pulse, pulse, pulse—while he milked the aftershocks with two ruthless squeezes. The silk handkerchief lived in the drawer because he was a man who planned for weakness; he wiped himself clean in efficient passes and tossed the evidence into the laundry like a crime he’d committed on purpose.

The screen had dimmed. He woke it again. The red waited, merciless and patient.

Another heart flickered under the caption. He locked the phone, set it face down, and finally pulled air to the bottom of his lungs.

“Mine,” he said to the empty room, and hated the relief that loosened something low in his spine.

He stood. The shower hammered cold at first—a punishment that didn’t touch the problem. His cock didn’t soften. It hung heavy, still glossy at the tip, each throb synced to the afterimage of the dress.

“Enough,” he told his body. It didn’t listen.

He swore, stepped out of the steam, and grabbed the phone. No screenshot. Not that far gone. Worse: he tapped Save. The post slid into the private drawer the app pretended wasn’t a shrine.

Possession, tidy as a bookmark.

He propped the phone on a folded towel beyond the glass, angled so the red square filled his sight through the fog. Turned the water hot. Braced a palm on tile. Wrapped his fist around himself again—no ceremony now, just the hard, efficient pull of a man making a problem disappear.

Steam blurred the edges, but he didn’t need clarity; he knew every inch of that frame by heart already. In his head she was on her knees, the dress puddled around her hips, the slit gaping like a wound he’d opened with his hand. Ask properly. Not “Professor” like a taunt—his name like surrender. He pictured tugging the red down just enough to spill a breast into his mouth, teeth catching on a stiff nipple while she whimpered. Then he stood her in front of the mirror, one palm flat on glass, her breath spelling please in fog while he pushed into her from behind and told her not to look away.

A low groan ripped out of him. He jerked himself harder, fist twisting on the upstroke, thumb circling the slick crown, forearm burning with the effort. His thighs tightened; his balls crawled high. He rode the edge like he rode everything else—white-knuckled, unkind—until the line snapped under his feet.

He came with a sharp gasp, spurts pulsing hot over his knuckles, then stringing down his fist as the water thinned it and carried it away. His cock kicked against his grip, sensitive now, twitching while the last shivers worked out of his spine. He set his forehead to the tile and breathed until the shudder quit his shoulders.

When he looked back at the phone, the saved icon glowed under the post like a small, obscene halo.

He didn’t tap it again. He didn’t have to. He’d already put her where he could reach her.

“Mine,” he said, softer this time. The steam ate the word.

He shut the water off. The mirror was a blind sheet. He toweled down, smoothed his hair, slid cool metal through his cuffs, buckled the watch. He left the tie loose, open at the throat like a secret he hadn’t learned to tie.

He picked up the phone before he left the bathroom but didn't unlock the screen.

He didn’t need to.

The red burned behind his eyelids whether he looked or not—and the fact that it lived now under Saved was proof enough of what he’d already admitted with his fist.

Chapter Text

The bar was quiet, backlit in amber and gold, throwing fractured reflections across the marble counter. Emmrich sat with his jacket unbuttoned, cuffs neat, the gleam of gold catching the low light. Varric leaned beside him, spinning his drink in slow, lazy circles against a coaster he wasn’t really watching.

They were the first to arrive. By design.

Emmrich’s drink — neat whiskey, something rare and old — remained untouched.

“You’re wound tighter than a lyrium line under pressure,” Varric said at last, casual enough, though his eyes flicked toward the pinhole mic clipped low against Emmrich’s collar.

“I’m fine,” Emmrich replied. Too fast. Too flat.

Varric didn’t push. He drew the compact receiver case from his jacket, flipped it open, and watched the blue LED blink steadily. “First wire’s live. Signal’s clean.”

Emmrich adjusted his collar. A second device, flatter, nestled beneath the bone of his clavicle. A backup. In case the first was torn away. Or taken.

Varric whistled low. “Two wires. Someone’s paranoid.”

Emmrich’s mouth twitched — the faintest attempt at a smile that never quite landed. “After today, I don’t want to risk anything.”

His gaze flicked down toward the phone on the bar, screen gone dark. The last app he’d opened was still waiting: Instafade. A red dress. Her profile. He knew better than to look at it here — not with her uncle seated beside him, not with cameras in every corner — but the image was already etched into the inside of his skull. He carried it everywhere.

“Rook’s not the mission,” Varric said softly.

“No,” Emmrich agreed, voice low. “She’s the reason I’m doing it.”

That drew a raised brow, but no comment. Instead, Varric ran diagnostics as Aveline had shown him. Both wires lit green. Both recording.

“If you get caught, if you don’t get the files; all this would be for nothing,” Varric said after a beat. Not warning. Statement of fact.

Emmrich finally picked up his glass. Took a slow sip. It burned, steady and good.
“Then I’ll make sure it counts.”

From the main floor came the swell of laughter — staff settling in, the early shuffle of guests. The night was beginning. Varric pocketed the case and glanced at him, weighing.

“You’re sure you can keep it together?”

“I have to.”

“And when she shows up?” Varric asked carefully.

Emmrich didn’t answer. He only looked toward the lights shimmering across the floor — like something about to break.

*****

The music wasn’t loud, but it pressed against the skin like pressure — velvet notes threaded with tension. Emmrich felt it settle deep in his bones.

Beside him, Varric leaned against the bar in his easy way, nursing amber in a pint glass. Their earlier talk about the wire had tapered into silence. Both mics were snug, live, humming. Emmrich wanted the two. He wasn’t taking chances.

Bellara arrived first, sleek in midnight blue, hair pinned with gold. Neve followed in glittering green, laughter bright as she slid against the bar.

“Well, gentlemen,” Neve purred, hip cocked, “how do we look?”

Bellara smirked. “Don’t answer unless you’re ready to bleed.”

Varric gave a low, appreciative whistle. “Dazzling. Might tank the market average.”

Emmrich inclined his head politely. “Striking, both of you.”

Neve narrowed her eyes. “And yet your glass is still full.”

“I’m waiting for something worth drinking to.”

And then he felt it.

Before the door even closed.

Not sound, not movement — gravity. The air shifted, thick, sweet, charged like a storm about to break.

He didn’t need to look to know.

It was her.

The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. His pulse kicked hard against his throat, blood rushing low and insistent. When he finally turned, she was already halfway through the room.

The dress was red. Not roses. Not wine. Red like blood, red like a command. Void of straps, the cut low across her chest, back carved low, the slit flashing thigh with every step. Silk clung to her as if someone had poured it there, mapping to her waist, her hips, her perfect legs. She wasn’t walking. She was claiming. Every stride an execution.

Heat coiled through him, fast and vicious. His cock stirred against the press of his trousers, already thick, already aching. That dress — that dress — the one from Instafade, the one burned into him like scripture. He’d pictured it so many nights, hand wrapped tight around himself, remembering the way she gasped against his mouth, how her body fit under his hands. He’d imagined peeling that silk off her, bending her until she broke. And now she was here. Real. Walking straight into his line of sight.

Her hair spilled in dark curls down her back, wild and deliberate, catching against bare skin at her shoulders. He remembered fisting it in both hands, dragging her head back to kiss her throat, to make her moan. His breath caught and stayed trapped.

She wasn’t dressed for attention. She was dressed to win. To ruin. To undo him completely.

Bellara whispered, “Maker below.”
Neve muttered, “Warning label.”

They were right. She was both.

Rook was a storm front, and he was standing in its eye.

Then she looked up.

Their eyes met.

The impact was brutal. No smile. No softening. Just cool devastation. She saw him. And he knew she knew — what he was remembering, what he was imagining even now.

Because the thought hit him so vividly, he almost groaned: her back against him as he pressed her to the floor-length mirror in his bedroom, palms braced flat against the glass, bent her just enough to see both their reflections. Her eyes locked on his in the glass as he took her from behind, hard, unrelenting, the mirror showing her everything — the way she trembled, the way he filled her, the way she came apart under him.

The vision clamped down on his chest, so sharp he had to shift his stance, hiding the rigid line of his cock against his trousers. His hand tightened around his glass until it threatened to crack. Untouched. Still full.

She should have turned away. Should have gone to the booth, to Harding, Lucanis, Taash and the others. Like she belonged there. Like she didn’t need him.

But she didn’t.

Rook came closer. Each step deliberate, the red silk shifting over her thighs until she stopped at the bar — beside Neve, beside Bellara, beside Varric. Beside him.

Close enough that he could smell her perfume — warm spice laced with something floral, intimate as breath against his throat. Close enough that if he shifted his hand just an inch, his fingers would brush the curve of her hip.

His body roared with need. His cock was already hard, pressing against his trousers, pulsing with every beat of his heart. He wanted her now. He didn’t care where or how. Against the floor-length mirror, palms braced flat while he drove into her until her reflection came apart beneath his. On the bed, spread wide for him, hair tangled in his fists. Or dragged into the nearest darkened corner of this suite, where he’d fuck her until she couldn’t stand, until she forgot every name but his.

Rook only smiled faintly, greeting them — not him. She still hadn’t looked at him.

That was worse.

Because it left him free to look at her. To sweep his gaze down the line of her throat, across the swell of her breasts framed by scarlet silk, down the impossible curve of her hips and thighs. Every inch of her was temptation incarnate, and every second she stood there breathing beside him was torture.

His hand tightened around his glass. Untouched. Still full.

Varric said nothing. Neither did he.

Because if he opened his mouth, if he let one word slip past his control, he’d have her against the wall before anyone could stop him.

*****

Emmrich was still trying to breathe when Zara’s voice sliced through the tension like perfume laced with acid.

“Well, well. Look at you, Mr CEO.”

He didn’t turn right away.

Couldn’t.

His gaze was still on the marble bar top, jaw tight, pulse thrumming somewhere in the hollow of his throat. He knew that voice. Knew the weight it carried. The calculation behind every syllable.

Rook was still beside him.

He could feel her presence like heat from a flame. So close. So alive.

Zara stepped into his peripheral vision in a glittering sheath of sequins and champagne arrogance, her voice warm and low. “Didn’t peg you for the party type.”

Emmrich blinked once. Then turned.

Because he had to. Because pretending she didn’t exist would cost him more than it gained.

“Miss Renata,” he said, voice measured. “You’re here.”

She pouted. “You noticed. I’m flattered.”

She leaned in—too close—and rested a hand lightly on the bar beside his own. Her nails were painted deep plum, her posture languid and suggestive. Her perfume was strong — sharp and the wrong notes of amber smoke — a poor imitation of the scent he’d just drowned in.

He stepped back slightly.

Subtle. But intentional.

Zara didn’t seem to notice. Or she pretended not to.

“It’s not a party without me,” she said with a smirk. “And certainly not the gossip.”

Emmrich’s chest was tightening.

He turned his head — instinct more than thought — to find Rook again.

But she was gone.

The space beside him was occupied by Varric and no other.

He straightened, scanning quickly—too quickly—the crowd ahead. And then he saw her: halfway across the suite, already walking away.

She hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t made a sound.

She’d left the moment his attention drifted to another woman.

His stomach sank.

Zara’s voice was still in his ear, velvet and poison.

“You look tense,” she purred, like it was an invitation.

“I’m fine,” he said flatly.

But his eyes were still on Rook. Watching the sway of her hips in that red dress, the defiant poise of her spine, the lift of her chin as she joined her friends.

She didn’t look back once.

She didn’t need to.

She knew.And that—

That was the worst part.

Because for a moment, she’d been there. Close. Electric. His.

And once more he let her go. He had a feeling there would be more such instances that night.

His jaw locked, hand still tight around a glass he could only bring himself to sip. He told himself it was strategy, control, necessity. But the hollow in his chest said otherwise.

The absence hit harder than the presence.

The moment Rook was gone, the air around him felt thinner. Less charged. Less alive.

Emmrich inhaled slowly, trying to keep his expression neutral. Trying not to chase her with his eyes. Trying not to stare at the glass she’d left behind like it was a fucking gravestone.

“Mm,” Zara hummed beside him, dragging her fingertip slowly around the rim of her coupe glass. “I always find it fascinating.”

He didn’t look at her.

“What is?” he said, voice low.

“The way she walks away,” Zara replied smoothly. “Like she wants you to follow, but knows you won’t. Delicious, isn’t it? That tension. That ache.”

Emmrich said nothing.

Zara leaned in. “You know,” she said, voice quieter now, more intimate, “you’re doing remarkably well. I half-expected you to chase after her. Tear off that little red dress like a madman.”

He turned his head slowly. Just enough to meet her gaze.

Zara smiled at the heat in his eyes. She mistook it for attention.

It wasn’t.

It was fury.

It was revulsion.

It was self-hatred burning through every restraint he still possessed.

“I could make it easier,” she said sweetly, brushing invisible dust from his lapel. “You don’t have to suffer like this, Emmrich. She isn’t the only one who’d let you bend her over that desk, you know.”

Varric let out a breath beside him. Not quite a scoff. Not quite a warning.

Emmrich’s jaw flexed.

Zara tilted her head, smile widening. “You’ve got needs. She’s not the only woman who’ll help with them.”

His reply was ice-cold, knife-clean.

“And you think that woman is you?”

Emmrich didn’t flinch.

He kept his posture loose, one elbow on the bar, his untouched whiskey in hand. On the outside, he looked relaxed. Composed. Even vaguely amused.

Inside, he was already bleeding.

Zara leaned in, laughing softly at something she’d said. He nodded once, indulging her with a half-smile — the kind of smile that said everything and nothing at once. A businessman’s smile. Professional. Hollow.

“You know,” she murmured, her fingertips barely brushing his cuff, “we could make a dangerous pair, you and I.”

He met her gaze smoothly. Cool. Controlled.

“Dangerous usually implies loss of control.”

Zara laughed again. “Only if you’re afraid of losing it.”

Emmrich’s mouth curved — just a touch. “That’s never been a concern of mine.”

“Then prove it,” she whispered, stepping back with the glide of a cat. “Sooner or later, you’ll want a woman who doesn’t make you bleed just to breathe.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, hips swaying like she was leaving him with a promise.

She wasn’t.

She was leaving him with a fucking aftertaste.

The moment her heels clicked out of earshot, Emmrich let the muscles in his jaw relax. His grip loosened. The glass in his hand no longer felt like a weapon he was forcing himself not to throw.

Varric shifted beside him. “Well,” he said dryly, “that was fucking revolting.”

Emmrich said nothing.

The jazz carried on behind them — a slow, sultry rhythm that felt too intimate, too heavy.

“As much as it pains me to see it,” Varric muttered, “to watch you flirt with someone who isn’t Rook… we need those files.”

Emmrich exhaled slowly. Measured. Through the nose.

He was holding it together. Barely.

“I know,” he said.

Varric turned to look at him, the warmth behind his eyes gentler now. Still blunt, but no longer barbed.

“You’re playing it well,” he said after a pause. “Just… don’t forget who you’re doing it for.”

That hit.

Emmrich’s grip on the glass tightened again. Not enough to break it — just enough to feel the edge of restraint.

“I need to raise the stakes,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Push her into making a mistake.”

“She’s already arrogant,” Varric replied. “You just have to give her a reason to gloat.”

Emmrich nodded once, eyes distant. “And if this goes sideways?” he asked, not quite meaning the op.

And he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time that night.

Varric sipped his drink, eyes never leaving him. “Then at least she’ll know you tried.”

Emmrich said nothing, jaw set, the glass cold in his grip.

A pause.

“Don’t waste what you’ve done to get here.“ Varric leaned in, quieter, the rough edge of truth under his tone. “You’ve already hurt her. Don’t make it worse by standing there and doing nothing.”

The words hit harder than a freight train ever could.

Emmrich didn’t answer. He couldn’t articulate the right words.

But his silence said everything.

*****

The bar had grown louder. Heat radiated off the crowd like steam rising from stone after rain, laughter spilling over the low thrum of jazz. Glasses clinked, dice rattled, and someone barked a cheer from the far end of the room.

Emmrich heard none of it.

He was watching her.

Rook sat across the suite, firelit beneath the golden sconces. Poised, immaculate, a red flame against velvet shadows. She laughed at something Neve said, and the sound struck him like a memory he didn’t deserve. Her dress clung to her like temptation, every movement calculated control — a mask of composure honed to perfection. To anyone else she was dazzling, untouchable.

To him, she looked brittle.

A movement snagged his attention at the corner of his vision. A server weaving between tables, balancing something tall and red in his hands.

Roses.

A bouquet, lush and extravagant, the gesture was loud, brazen, meant to draw eyes.

Emmrich didn’t move. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his untouched glass, but outwardly he remained still, cold as stone.

He watched her.

The moment the flowers were set down, she froze.

It wasn’t dramatic — no sharp intake of breath, no gasp. Just stillness, the kind that screamed louder than panic. A thread of light left her face, something private and fragile extinguished in an instant.

Varric, beside him at the bar, shifted. His voice was low, taut with restrained fury:
“Her hands are shaking.”

Emmrich’s gaze narrowed. He saw it now — the subtle tremor in her fingers, the stiffness in her posture. She didn’t look at the bouquet. She didn’t look at anyone. The mask was slipping, and only those who knew her best could see the cracks.

Something’s wrong.

Memory bit him. The last bouquet. Delivered to the bank earlier that week. She had asked Neve to get rid of it, her voice clipped, her expression unreadable. He hadn’t pressed her. He told himself it wasn’t his place. That if she wanted to explain, she would.

Back then, he had told himself they were from some faceless admirer — some colleague emboldened by her smile, or worse, Cullen with his smug charm. The idea had needled him, fed that sharp, ugly pang of jealousy he buried beneath civility. He had wanted to tear the card from the stems, to crush the petals in his hand, to know who dared send them. And now, seeing her hands tremble, he hated himself for it. For every crude thought, every selfish suspicion. They hadn’t been gifts. They had been warnings. And he had been too blind — too consumed by his own hunger — to see it.

Now he felt the weight of that cowardice like a blade twisting in his gut.

The air shifted. A laugh — low, serpentine — drifted across the suite. Zara.

She was watching too. Eyes bright with cruel delight as she leaned close to him, voice poured like poison in his ear: “He never learns, does he?”

Emmrich’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look at her.

“Always takes what he wants,” she murmured, lips curling. “No matter how.”

The words slid under his skin like ice. It took a heartbeat, then another, for meaning to bloom.

Takes.
No matter how.

By the time he turned, Zara was already sauntering away, drink in hand, hips swaying in smug satisfaction.

Emmrich stared forward, but the world had tilted. The laughter, the music, the lights — all of it warped around him, unreal. His breath came shallow, uneven.

He looked at Rook again.

The roses, gaudy and cruel.
Her hands, trembling.
Her silence, the mask of composure stretched too thin.

Varric muttered something under his breath, venom in every syllable. Emmrich didn’t catch it all — only fragments, the tone like broken glass:
“…watching her… sick fucker…”

Then the crack of plastic under strain. Varric’s pint glass warped in his fist, crushed flat, beer spilling over his knuckles.

A sound caught in Emmrich’s throat, half growl, half breath. His body moved without thought, a step toward her, toward the bouquet — toward blood.

A hand caught his arm. Varric’s. Strong, immovable.

“Not now.”

Two words, iron in their weight.

Emmrich didn’t protest, he knew the shorter man was grounding. His body stilled, his rage leashed by force of will. Because Varric was right. If he crossed the suite now, it wouldn’t be to comfort her.

It would be to destroy someone. An act he couldn't afford at this moment.

His hazel eyes stayed locked on her, even as Varric tugged him subtly back toward the bar’s far corner. His body followed, but his mind — his thoughts — did not.

They clung to her.

To the bouquet, the obscene spectacle of it.
To her trembling hands.
To the invisible wound he had missed, ignored, failed to see.